


risk it all

by slimandalittlebitfoxy



Series: e is for everything [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Adult Losers Club (IT), And eventually he’ll admit it, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bev being supportive is the best trope idc, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, IT Chapter Two Spoilers, Losers Club (IT) Friendship, Lots and lots of love between the Losers, Movie: IT Chapter Two (2019), No sad endings in this house, Post-IT Chapter Two (2019), Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie is emotional, Slow Burn, Smut, Swearing, What can you do when Richie and Eddie are in the same room, Worth It, lots and lots of swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2020-10-29 03:28:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20789873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slimandalittlebitfoxy/pseuds/slimandalittlebitfoxy
Summary: Richie acts in time to save Eddie’s life. He shows him something he’s kept secret since that fateful summer. What happens next? (Basically, being a grownup is crap and feelings suck but happy endings exist and thank f*** for that. Rated for future chapters.)





	1. nothing like old friends

**Author's Note:**

> *READ THE FIRST FIC IN THE SERIES FOR THE BUILDUP IF YOU WANT PLEASE, THIS WAS GONNA BE A ONE SHOT BUT TURNED INTO SO MUCH MORE* Buckle up kids (please, children, don’t read this) because I’ve never written this many words in one day. I threw in some book references throughout this series since it’s only my favorite book ever - try to spot them. ;-) Also I’m a slut for Losers Club Good Times TM so brace yourselves. Enjoy the ride.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Losers play some board games, double entendres ensue.

_And I’ve got some good friends now_  
_But I’ve never seen their parent’ back porch_  
_I wouldn’t change how things turned out_  
_But there’s no one in this time zone_  
_Who knows what inline skates that I wore._

_Can you take me back when we were just kids_  
_Who weren’t scared of getting older?_  
_‘Cause no one knows you like they know you_  
_And no one probably ever will_  
_You can grow up, make new ones_  
_But the truth is_  
_That we grow up, then wish we could go back then_  
_There’s nothing like old friends_  
_‘Cause you can’t make old friends._

-_Old Friends_, Benjamin Rector

The kiss was over as quickly as it began, though as their lips touched, Richie felt in his bones that his life had been leading up to that moment since the day he and Eddie met. The memories that had still been hidden exploded in a supernova behind his eyes. The way Eddie pulled back, letting go of him, turning to look out over the side of the Kissing Bridge again, he started to wonder if it had even happened at all. He was about to wake up from the Deadlights again and Eddie would be dead—or—or _Richie_ was the one who died and he somehow made it into heaven and this was it—but it could also be hell, doomed to an afterlife of receiving and then losing everything over and fucking over again. The kiss was soft, and sweet, and _fucking hell_ did Eddie moisturize, and Richie had never felt more at peace. He took a deep breath. He’d turned into a fucking sap. He didn’t know what to say.

“You’re married, asshole,” some part of Richie’s idiot brain decided on, his hands and face numb. Eddie was still looking away.

“So’s Bev, asshole,” he said, in that tight little way with his stupid, overly-expressive eyebrows pinched.

“What...what did you even do that for, huh?” He said, a panicked vulnerability rising in him like a wave. “You’re not...you’re not _gay_.”

Eddie looked at him. “Are you?”

“Yes—no—bisexual, I—I guess. Why the fuck does everyone have to put labels on shit, anyway?” _Can’t I just be in love with you and you can be in love with me and nothing else fucking matters?_

Eddie shrugged. He really wasn’t giving Richie much of anything, besides his stupid, stupid, stupid (_cutecuteCUTE_) pinched eyebrows. “You’re the one that started trying to label shit.”

Richie was beginning to feel hysterical. How the _fuck_ was Eddie so calm? The only time in his entire _life_ he felt this—this _weird_ and out-of-body was when they were battling a goddamn evil alien entity with a personal vendetta against him and his friends. Was that really only fucking _yesterday_?

“We should—“ Eddie cleared his throat. “We should get back to the Townhouse. Spend some more time with everyone before we all—all leave, tomorrow.” He walked back towards the passenger side of the car. Richie dragged a hand down his face.

“No—_no_,” Richie said. “You’re not allowed to do that. You’re not _fucking_ allowed to do that.” Eddie turned around and huffed. His big eyes looked like they were about to flood.

“Do what? Leave?” Eddie said. “I’ve spent nearly two decades building a life away from this place.” He stepped towards Richie. “Rich—you fucking _idiot_. It’s not that easy.”

“It is though,” Richie said. “_You_ kissed _me_. Or did you already forget that, too?”

Eddie cringed back like Richie had struck him. “You really think that’s what’s going to happen? You don’t—you don’t even fucking know me, then.”

“You grew up and you became a _risk analyst_ for fuck’s sake. And at some point, I may have thought it _screamed_ Edward Kaspbrak—“ Richie shook his head incredulously. “But you’re the bravest little bastard I know, and you want to go back to sitting in an office convincing people _not_ to be brave? Is that it? Am I too much of a fucking risk for you?”

Eddie pinched the bridge of his nose. “You’re reckless. You’re selfish. You’re a sellout. You’re unpredictable. You drive a bright red sports car, for Christ’s sake!” He gestured desperately and the Mustang.

“It’s just—it’s a rental. I don’t think you know _me_ very well then,” Richie responded in a low voice. He felt like he’d been the one fucking impaled.

“You can’t—you can’t just tell me you’ve been in love with me since we were kids and expect everything to change at the drop of a hat. I just need—I need _time_ Rich. This is—this is a lot. I might be brave, but I’m not a fucking superhero.” Eddie had retreated to lean against the hood of the car. The stupid cherry red car. Why the fuck did Richie pick red? He didn’t even _like_ red all that much. Images of Pennywise’s blood-colored balloons floated through his mind. _Fuck red._ Richie leaned against it beside him.

“I—I know.” Richie’s desperation had quickly melted away into acceptance at the frustration in Eddie’s voice. He said what he needed to say. The ball was in Eddie’s court, and he could keep it if he wanted to. He just wanted him to know it existed in the first place. “I’m sorr—“

“Don’t you fucking dare apologize.” He raised his hand under his chin in that way, his tic, the way he did when they were kids, and Richie started to laugh. Eddie laughed, too. They sobered, and Eddie continued. “You—you mean the world to me, shithead. I wanted to—wanted to kiss you. It felt right, it felt good, and that’s all I know right now. I’d also suggest some chapstick, you desert-mouthed motherfuc—“

“Maybe you lay off. Your mouth felt like a baby’s ass. I need _texture_,” Richie shrugged. Eddie started to say something combative, then they both dissolved into a fit of giggles. _Fuck, this feels good._ “Let’s go back.”

And so they did.

**********

Ben, Bev, Bill, and Mike were settled in the downstairs sitting room when they arrived. They had a game of Scrabble laid out on the coffee table. Bill was the first to speak. “Where the hell did you two go off to? We texted you.” Eddie pulled out his phone. Fifteen unread messages in the group chat (along with thirty-five missed calls from Myra and more text messages than he wanted to think about, it’s why his phone was on silent). Their battle with It was still fresh. His heart sank and he looked at Richie—they shouldn’t have worried them like that. Richie’s face said the same.

Richie shrugged it away. “We were busy fucking your mother, who’d have thought she always wanted a threesome?” Bill _beep beeped_ him and Eddie settled in next to Richie on the empty loveseat. Bev was looking over at them, an expression on her face that said she knew something was up. Bev _always_ knew. Richie seemed to be purposefully avoiding her, going as far as to look up at the ceiling in the least nonchalant fashion possible. She wrinkled her nose, caught Eddie’s eyes one more time, and played the word _zygotes_, tripling the score of the letter _e_.

“How the fuck are we supposed to even compete with that?” Mike cried, throwing up his hands. She had a smug smile on her face.

“Wait until I kick all of your asses in Monopoly, too,” she said, standing up to check out what other aged board games the Townhouse had collected. Ben shook his head, playing the word _cow_ with a wince.

Richie stretched his arm over the back of the couch, behind Eddie. “Break out Risk and I’ll slaughter you fuckers.” He glanced at Eddie, and Eddie doubted that even an ounce of that was true. _You sly shit,_ he tried to say with only his face.

“Ah, they have it!” Bev said, raising the beaten-up old Risk box over her head like the Holy Grail. “I’ll take that bet, Tozier. Time to put your money where your Trashmouth is. Hundred dollars says I’ll beat you by a landslide.” She glanced at Eddie. “_And_ Eddie will beat you, too. He does this shit for a living.”

Was Richie really turning red? Eddie blinked. He laughed. Richie groaned. “Fuck, okay. You and Eddie _both_ have to beat me.”

“I’ll throw in on that,” Ben said, pulling a Benjamin out of his wallet and placing it on the table in his careful way. “Two hundred says they’ll both kick your ass.”

Bev smirked. Richie got redder. Bill and Mike raised their eyebrows, both grinning. Eddie poked him in the side and muttered, “Don’t talk shit you can’t back up.”

“Don’t kiss people you’re not trying to fuck,” Richie whispered, smiling coyly. Heat pooled somewhere Eddie couldn’t quite place—or, maybe he just didn’t want to know where he _could_ place it. Richie withdrew the arm he had around the back of the couch and leaned forward in his seat. Everyone else was too busy watching Bev get the board set up to notice that it was Eddie’s turn to go red.

**********

This was bad.

This was a mistake of egregious proportions.

Richie had truly, earnestly, definitively fucked up.

Richie was _losing_ and Eddie was fucking living for it—and so was everyone else, it seemed. They were over three hours into the game and Ben and Mike were already out. They had retreated to the bar and popped a bottle. Bill was falling behind, and Bev, Eddie, and Richie were locked in a neck-and-neck-and-neck competition for the lead, Richie falling just short. They were _absolutely_ ganging up on him, which he did not hesitate to moan about once every couple minutes.

Then, Bill came out of nowhere and captured his biggest territory. Richie looked at him, hurt. “What the fuck, Big Bill?” He whined.

“Shuh-shouldn’t have been talking shit,” Bill said, grinning. “It’s cuh-called turtling. Google it.”

Not long after, Bill took him out. “Nooooo!” He shouted, dramatically throwing himself across the loveseat, across Eddie. Eddie pointedly didn’t look at him. “He done killed me, sah,” he drawled in a shitty southern accent.

“Get the fuck off me, I have a war to win,” Eddie grumbled, shoving him away. Richie sat up and adjusted his still-broken glasses. He’d forgotten to go to the optometrist. Didn’t seem important at all anymore because—_Is he blushing? Shit._

Bill took out Bev not long after. “What the fuck!” She shouted. “Pour me one of those,” she groaned, and Ben handed her a shot. Richie took one as well. Bev lit her first cigarette of the night—she’d quit, she said, but she bought a pack because of the whole killer-clown thing and _had_ to finish it off, and the ashtrays still littered around the Townhouse, remnants of an age frozen in time, gave her the go ahead. Richie took one of those, too.

By the time the fourth hour rolled by, Bill was closing in on Eddie. “Fuck fuck _fuck_!”

“What’s the matter, Eds?” Richie crooned, pinching his cheek. Eddie slapped his hand away with a nearly robotic _don’t call me that_. Bill’s next move put him in a bad spot. Eddie rolled low. Bill took over his last territory.

Eddie turned on him. “You fucker, you distracted me!”

Richie batted his eyelashes. “Lil’ old me? Admiral Aspirator, I would never!”

“Fuck you,” Eddie grumbled as Mike clapped Bill on the back with a chuckle, offering him a glass. Bill took it.

“I’m telling you, the turtle trick always helps,” Bill said, smug.

“Sure as fuck didn’t help us!” Richie declared. Ben had started packing the game back up.

Bev looked at Richie, hand outstretched. “Well, at least Eddie and I whooped your ass. Pay up, Trashcan.” She made a _gimme gimme_ gesture. Richie flipped her off as he handed over the bill.

Mike checked his watch. “Holy hell, is it midnight already?” He looked at the others, eyes settling on Bill. “Your flight leaves in like six hours.”

“Shit, you’re ruh-right,” he said. He looked down at his feet. A solemn silence filled the room. “Guess we should get some rest.” No one moved the leave the room, though. When they did, that would mean it’s over—pieces of their hearts scattered across the country, so soon after being made whole again. Big Bill finally stood, finished off his glass, and said, “This isn’t goodbye. It’s see you later.” He said it with no stutter—the stutter was already fading again, anyway.

“If we don’t fucking forget again,” Richie blurted, the bitterness in his voice surprising even himself. He looked at Eddie. Eddie didn’t look away. _Fucking eyebrow-talking motherfucker._

Mike shook his head. “Not this time. We won’t let it happen.” All of their phones pinged. It was Mike, with a waving emoji. “See?”

Ben and Bev stood, closing in on Bill for a hug. Bev kissed him on the cheek. “Seeya later, Bill.”

They all had tear-brimmed eyes. They joined in for one last group hug. Bill sniffled. Everyone else was sniffling, too. Mike spoke. “I’ve already reserved a timeshare down in Florida for the next few months. I don’t have much, but I’ve saved some. It’ll be nice down there, in the fall. No snow. Let’s plan something.”

Richie threw his arm over his shoulders. “You got it, Mikey my boy.” He kissed him on the cheek and Mike made to wipe it off.

Mike bid them one last goodnight, for now, and left the Townhouse. Bill, Ben, Bev, Richie, and Eddie trudged upstairs, every step seeming to grow between them. Ben, Bev, and Bill made their stops, they said everything they could say—not goodbye, see you later.

Eddie stopped in front of Richie’s door with him. Richie didn’t know what to say. A lump was caught in his throat, one hell of a lump, all the cigs he smoked in his twenties finally caught up, he’d have to see a doctor about it. Eddie opened his mouth and closed it a few times. Richie squeezed his shoulder, forcing a half-smile without much heart.

Eddie closed his eyes and breathed out his nose. “I know—I—I know we said ‘just for tonight’ last night, but—but maybe—just—“

Richie just nodded, letting the jangle of his keys be the answer to Eddie’s pitifully formed question as he unlocked his door. He tried to ignore the nervous fluttering in his stomach. For fuck’s sake, he _had_ turned into a sap.

**********

They woke up in another comfortable tangle of limbs. Eddie didn’t jump away this time. He looked at the sleeping Richie. Richie’s mouth was hanging open. His breath was probably rank. He tried not to think about the Deadlights again. He’d kissed that mouth yesterday. What did that mean to him? He had to decide, right? Friends kiss friends sometimes. It happens. Around bonfires, drunk off wine coolers and never-ending summer nights, during games of truth or dare. Does it have to be a big deal? _He’s in love with you, stupid. It is a big deal. Is it a big deal to you? Is it? IS IT?_ The longer he looked at him the more he thought it might be. Friends didn’t kiss friends after love confessions, not just for fun. Eddie _was_ the one that made the move. Edward Kasbrak, making the first move. What? He thought about Myra, about her round face, about how he hadn’t woken up next to her in years. They shared separate beds—separate rooms. That was before—before all this, too. Eddie wasn’t gay. Eddie didn’t think he was straight, either. Did other men look this good to straight men? Richie could _really_ pull off the stubble look. It was easier to think about these things when he was sleeping so peacefully and wasn’t running his fucking mouth—but wasn’t that something Eddie liked—loved about him? Did people still use the word ‘queer’? Maybe that was it. _Queer little wheezy girly boy_. He could almost hear Bowers, Henry Bowers that had literally stabbed Eddie in the fucking face, brought down by a queer and a bisexual. Ha. Eddie reached out and brushed one long, curly strand of hair out of Richie’s face. Richie closed his mouth and blinked his bleary eyes at the touch and Eddie felt himself flush. He hadn’t blushed like this since he was a fucking teenager, _get it together, dude._

“I can’t fucking see, but are you giving me bedroom eyes right now, Spaghetti?” He sighed, reaching for his glasses.

“If you mean we are currently in a bedroom and I have eyes, then yes, dipshit,” Eddie said as Richie sat up.

“I just _love_ when you get all _technical_, Eds,” Richie said, feigning a moan. “Please, do more.”

Eddie sat up and crossed his arms, rolling his eyes damn near into the back of his head. _What the fuck am I doing? He’s flirting with me and I’m flirting back?_ It felt okay, though. Eddie tried not to think too much. He grabbed his phone and started checking for flights, something he should have done yesterday.

Richie peered at the screen with a pout. “You know I could just drive you.”

Eddie looked at him, incredulous. “It’s like seven hours, stupid.”

“So? I’m an _expert_ driver,” Richie scoffed.

“I don’t think we’d make it out alive,” Eddie said, continuing to scroll through the tickets. Richie scowled, grabbing his own phone. He chose one and paid for it—they had four hours left. Why did it feel like a countdown? _Because it is._ The bed groaned as Richie went the bathroom. Eddie closed his eyes. Richie walked out of the bathroom and Eddie peeked at him and, to his horror, Richie was using his chapstick. He jumped out of bed and pounced on him, but Richie held the tube just out of his reach. If only he’d grown another couple of inches. When the fuck did Richie get so _tall_?

“I can’t believe you-you’re using _my_ fucking chapstick? It costs like a dollar, you fucker!” Eddie stretched and Richie backed away, pulling a duckface. His shirt rode up. Eddie told himself not to notice.

“Don’t they look just _so_ kissable now, though?” He proceeded to make kissy noises, flapping his duckface, and Eddie wanted to slap him and...what else did he want to do? Didn’t matter. Eddie had other things he needed to do first. He jabbed Richie in the side and he dropped the tube in surprise, cap off, and he could already see the fucking dust particles stuck to it.

“Let me buy you some more, I’ll take that one,” Richie shrugged, grabbing it from Eddie’s hand as he stared at it with disgust, putting the cap back on to Eddie’s absolute horror. He put _his_ mouth on _that_ mouth? He had. “I’ll drive you to the air—the airport and we’ll pick up some more on the way.” Richie’s tone fell during the last bit, and ended on a sigh, brushing past Eddie to start gathering his shit together and piling it (messily) into his suitcase.

“Well don’t act so fucking depressed,” Eddie said, collecting his own things. Most of them were still in his room. Why the hell did he bring so much stuff? _Because of his mother. Because of Myra._ They just fed and fed and fed into all of his insecurities and doubts and fears and never, _never_ made him feel like it was enough. Who killed a psychotic clown before he was fourteen? _Me._ Who stabbed Bowers with a knife he pulled out of his own face? _Also me._ Who married a woman ten times his own body mass? _Me._ Yeah. You're braver than you think. _The bravest little bastard he’s ever met._ His heart had soared, though he’d choose to omit the last part of Richie’s line of questioning if ever asked. He hated to admit it. The paid-for plane ticket seemed to simmer under the screen of his phone.

“You don’t get to say that to me, I can act however the hell I want,” Richie said with a shrug. Man, he was not good at the whole _nonchalant_ thing. Eddie resigned to leave it at that. He was brave. But maybe—maybe Richie thought more of him than he actually was. Isn’t that how it always is, when you loved someone?

The minutes ticked by, and Eddie felt a palpable barrier forming between them. _Fuck._


	2. first day of my life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, real life sucks, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my playlist dedicated to these stupid motherfuckers here, always in progress: https://open.spotify.com/user/31rxj56f55ks5ozp7vjxamjfcrl4/playlist/0GVSPfsU8IHWdtLpXzd7cI?si=Q73OarLKRrSOO_IV6BL6fw

_Yours was the first face that I saw_  
_I think I was blind before I met you_  
_I don't know where I am, I don't know where I've been_  
_But I know where I want to go._

_And so I'd thought I'd let you know_  
_That these things take forever, I especially am slow_  
_But I realized that I need you_  
_And I wondered if I could come home._

-_First Day of My Life_, Bright Eyes 

__

__

__

Richie didn’t want to see him go. Didn’t want to _let_ him go. Bill left—then Ben and Bev—Mikey was packing his shit and heading out, too; pieces being chipped away from his cold fucking heart, a heart he hadn’t known was so frozen. And as Eddie was waving goodbye, heading through the headache that is airport security, Richie felt a desperate sense of abandonment that he couldn’t let sit. He hadn’t arrived with a plan—and he hoped Eddie wouldn’t blame him for what he was about to do. He called the rental company, told them where the stupid car was, tossed the keys in the glovebox after locking it, mentally flipped the cherry red piece of shit off, and grabbed his bags. He’d pay the locksmith fee. He had the money—_thanks Pennywise, you extraterrestrial, life-ruining fucker._ There were a few seats left on Eddie’s flight—it wasn’t exactly prime time to fly to NYC. Richie wasn’t going to let him walk away this time, not when they _both_ knew, remembered, and could understand what it was that was going on. They didn’t have parents, adults, stupid fucking _grownups_, that didn’t know anything, tearing them in different directions. Since growing up, he finally realized how little they ever actually knew—he sure as _shit_ didn’t know anything. But he did know—Eddie was queer. Richie knew. _Friends_ didn’t fucking stare at other friends while they were _sleeping_. Not after kissing them. And-and even if he _hadn’t_ Richie would still have that horrific sinking feeling in his stomach as he walked away, if that’s what he had decided to do. Richie would never tell him, but he knew how long he was looking at him that morning. Even if he was just a blob without his glasses, he could see the fuzzy black orbs of his pupils and the blur of that stupid (_cutecuteCUTE_) thing he did with his eyebrows. Like he wouldn’t notice—feel it. He couldn’t keep up the charade when he reached out and touched him, oh no. Brushing his hair away. That shit felt like an electric shock, but Richie played it off—easy peasy lemon-goddamn-squeezy. Because Eddie was an idiot—_his_ idiot, even if neither of them knew exactly what that meant yet. Eddie probably though Richie was the stupid one. _Joke’s on him, though, because we both are._

He checked through baggage and feigned surprise when he saw Eddie nestled in the compact airport seating. “Fancy seeing you here, Spaghetti Man.”

Eddie had some complex look on his face, somewhere between hope, distrust, love, and fury. Richie could work with that. “What the literal fuck do you think you’re _doing_ Tozier?”

Richie plopped down next to him, carry-on between his knees. “I’ve only been to New York City twice—just on tour. I never got to _see_ any of it, you know? I think it’s time. I can crash with you, right?” He shot him a finger gun.

Eddie huffed. Then crumbled. Then put his face in his hands. “You _fucking_ dumbass.”

Richie took pause, then. He was embarrassed. It was not an emotion Richard Tozier was familiar with. _This is stupid, isn’t it? You _are_ the stupid one._

Eddie then let out a sigh Richie though was never going to end—seriously, he was concerned it was his dying breath. The asthma was gone, but that wheeze was alarming. Finally, after a never-ending amount of time—“I’m leaving Myra.”

Richie tried to formulate a response—a serious one. He tried, he really and truly _tried_, but all that came out was a batting of eyelashes, hands crossed beneath his chin, and a, “For me, Eds? Oh lawdy lawdy, where-oh-where, will my father come up with a dowry on such short notice?”

Eddie turned red. It was brilliant, and Richie reveled selfishly in it. “Can you just—just shut the fuck up for five minutes?” His tone was rising, and after a couple looks from the women with small children clinging to their legs, the last few words had simmered down. He was practically hissing.

“I’m not—I’m not fucking doing this for you—“ Eddie said, doing his stupid hand thing again. Richie was truly, irreparable smitten. “I’m doing this because—because you’re right—”

Richie raised his eyebrows in absolute shock. “Whoah there, buddy. We have to address this. Did you just—“

“YesIjustfuckingsaidyouwererightshhutthefuckup,” he whispered in a breathless fury. Eddie talked fast, sure, he always had, but Richie just about had whiplash from the last one. “Now listen. You were right—I—against all better judgement, when I didn’t have any fucking _friends_ to tell me otherwise anymore, I married my goddamn mother, okay?”

Richie sputtered. He didn’t know how to contain it. The giggles bubbled up. He couldn’t help it—he could never control what came out of his fucking mouth, and he’d built a living off of it—and Eddie’s last sentence sent him off like a bottle rocket set to explode God knows how long ago.”You—you fucking—_ten times_ your body mass, Eds!”

Eddie let out a harsh laugh, not humoring Richie in the slightest. “You’re right, Richie. You’ve always been fucking right.”

_Always?_ Richie allowed his heart to skip a beat. He lived in the feeling for just a moment. When had his heart last done that? _Probably when Eddie’s stinky fucking socks were in my face, so fucking pathetic._ Richie didn’t feel pathetic, though. Quite the opposite. Richie felt hope. Hope that—that everything wouldn’t turn to shit between his fingers. He didn’t want to be cradling shit anymore. He wanted to cradle something precious. He looked at Eddie. “It’s okay, Eds. I’m sorr—“

“Didn’t I tell you not to say that?” Eddie said. He was serious—dead serious.

“Yeah. I’m—yeah. It’s hard to walk away. But I’m glad you—“ Richie searched for the words, at a loss for one of the few times in his life. Seemed to be happening a lot more than usual lately. “I hope you feel peace at your decision.”

“At _peace_? Who the hell are you?” Eddie said. “Is this the 70s? Who the fuck feels _peace_ anymore, Richie McCartney?”

Richie balked. Damn, Eddie was getting good. He’d taught him well—or, he always had been, feisty little shit. Eddie softened, then. They were never good at the serious stuff, but Eddie had let him be serious at the bridge, and more. “Thanks, Rich. Thank you for the support.”

Richie laid an arm behind the seat Eddie was settled in. “You know it, Eddie Spaghetti. Anything for my best friend.” He fluttered his eyelashes again. Eddie fucking blushed. Fuck, they were getting in deep. The flight attendant called for boarding, and off they went. Out of the blue and into the black—into a world of possibilities. Richie tried to curb the excitement, and terror, of heading into the unknown.

**********

It was Eddie’s turn to fuck up.

Really, truly, irreparably fuck up.

And Eddie had never felt such a complicated mix of relief and tragedy at the same time.

Myra was pissed. Not just regular pissed—oh, no. Eddie had not called her. Eddie had not even texted her. He left for nearly a week without a single explanation, then came back, and asked for a divorce. She was red in the face, tears streaming down her puffy cheeks, and Eddie felt broken in a hundred different ways—except one. The one telling him this is what needs to happen.

“Myra—Myra listen. This is not—you know this—this is not working. This hasn’t worked. You—“ Eddie hesitated. _You’re my mother._ She was advancing on him, intimidating. It would be easy to give up. The cowardly part of him screamed at him to reconcile. The _brave little bastard_ took hold of the wheel. “You and I just don’t _fit_. There’s nothing you can do to change my mind, and it’s not your fault. My movers will come by tomorrow, okay? I’ll settle—you’ll have everything you need. Just lay aside the shit—_stuff_—you don’t need or want and I’ll have it gone, okay?”

She burst into stubborn, resolve-melting tears. “_Why_ are you doing this to me? Who is she?”

“There is no she—“ Eddie said. It wasn’t a lie. “Myra, I love you. I just had some time away—some time to think—and this is what’s best. For both of us.”

She wasn’t a _bad_ woman. That made it all the much harder. He drew her into an embrace—a too warm, too smothering embrace. Was she _trying_ to choke him out? Force him to use his aspirator one more time? He didn’t fucking _need_ it anymore—_a gazebo._ He tried not to laugh—out of hysteria and over all the fucked up shit he was currently having to go through. There were certain people you could laugh in front of, out of panic, without them judging you, and then there were the others. Fuck being a grownup. Myra eventually let go.

“Okay, Eddie.” She looked fucking broken and it broke Eddie a little, too. It wasn’t her fault. It wasn’t her fault, or his, that he just _forgot_. He felt Pennywise laughing at him from beyond the grave—from underneath 29 Neibolt Street, the unfortunate source of many forgotten nightmares since. _Fuck you, you sloppy bitch._ He bit back another bout of hysterical laughter.

“I love you, Myra. I know you’ll be okay,” Eddie said. “I’ll make sure of it.” He would throw away every penny if it meant starting over.

“Thank you,” she sniffed. The pink flushing her cheeks started to fade. “I felt it, too—I was just so afraid. I’m glad you’re—you’re okay.”

_Ahhh, fuck._ “I’m okay. You’re okay, too. We’re both okay,” Eddie said, drawing in a deep breath. “We’ll just have to be okay apart. Okay?”

She blubbered a bit. “Okay,” Myra choked out.

“Okay,” Eddie said, kissing the top of her head goodbye—_Goodbye, Myra. Goodbye, mom._

He trotted down the stairs, his one extra suitcase heavy, and the regrets feeling even heavier. He hadn’t even known the regrets were there until—until Derry. Richie was sitting in a rental—a _blue_ mustang this time—with the engine idling. He looked at him, through the thick-ass still-broken glasses that magnified his eyes just a little, concern melting away every doubt Eddie might have had before tearing away. “Everything okay?”

Eddie shook his head, because it wasn’t now but it would be. Richie understood. He nodded, and they drove off.

**********

Eddie hadn’t left his wife for Richie. Obviously not. Eddie had left his wife because he wasn’t happy—which he hadn’t fully realized until he had seen Richie again. And the others. Richie had also forgotten what it felt like to be loved. He knew what it was like—the sting of the lost years. Coincidence, obviously. _Obviously._

They decided to stay in New York City for the night. They didn’t necessarily have a choice. It was late, they were tired. Eddie had a long day. Richie couldn’t blame him. They found a swanky hotel on the outskirts of town—Eddie wouldn’t settle for less, and Richie couldn’t imagine the internal conflict he had when he realized he had no choice but to stay at the _Derry Townhouse_ of all places. It explained the flip flops—shower shoes. They booked a double bed. They sat on the edge of one of the beds and ordered their plane tickets together.

“You—you really want to stay with me?” Richie asked in earnest. Richie had had to have uncharacteristically serious conversations the past few days. It was getting absolutely exhausting. He could feel it in his core.

“I can just rent a flat somewhere else, if you’d prefer,” Eddie responded offhandedly.

Richie snorted. “Flat? Are you fucking British? Fuck off. You’re staying with me.”

“Then that’s that, then, isn’t it?” Eddie yawned, flopping back on their chosen seat. “Is this your bed, or mine?”

“Yours, I guess. You’ve already smeared your scent all over it like a fucking animal,” Richie said, stripping off his shirt and unbuckling his pants. Just out of Eddie’s sight line. Or was he? Richie didn’t check. He slipped into the excessively gold-leafed bathroom, brushed his teeth, then beelined to bed.

**********

Eddie was woken at about three in the morning by terrified moans drifting from the other side of the room. He thought they were part of his own dream at first—he didn’t remember much, but he knew it hadn’t been a good one—until he shook himself from sleep, stumbled to the bathroom, took a nearly orgasmic piss, then studied Richie in the light flooding through the bathroom door in a distorted trapezoid. Richie was tossing and turning, his covers tangled between his legs. How this turned out to be his responsibility, Eddie didn’t know, but he wasn’t about to shrug it off either. He clambered into Richie’s bed, for the third _fucking_ night in a row, characteristically disgruntled, and told him to _shut the fuck up, Tozier_. Without waking, Richie settled into his chest—like he fit there, somehow. Eddie never knew what that was like—to _fit_ somewhere. He did at one point—but his stupid ass had forgotten. And here he was, feeling as effortlessly nestled as a missing puzzle piece as Richie curled into him; shirtless, sweaty, and subconsciously desperate for comfort. Eddie fell back asleep shortly after. For the rest of the night, at least, he felt whole. He thought about how Richie looked like he’d been using the floor-chapstick. For some reason, he hoped he’d at least wiped it off first. For some reason.

**********

Richie woke up to Eddie looking at him again, but this time, he wasn’t prepared for it. He scrambled to grab his glasses and Eddie gingerly placed them on his face. Eddie untangled himself from the blankets and hopped out of bed. They were up nearly thirty minutes early for their alarm. Early enough for them both to take a shower, and for Richie to grab a coffee and Eddie to grab a tea from the complimentary café downstairs. Shit _was_ swanky.

“Couldn’t get enough of me, eh Eds?” Richie tried to joke.

“Couldn’t get enough sleep with you groaning about whatever the fuck you were dreaming about last night, that’s for sure,” Eddie quipped before shutting the bathroom door tight behind him. Richie remembered just enough. He didn’t quip back.

They grabbed their hot drinks to go and set off for the airport—Richie driving, Eddie backseat driving from the passenger seat. “You know you don’t—you can stop before you like—get within three fucking inches of the bumper, right? You know that?”

“You’re one to fucking talk, last time I checked _you_ were the one that wrecked your fucking car when Mike called you,” Richie said matter-of-factly.

Eddie groaned. “He fucking told you about that? Goddammit.”

“Oh don’t take the Lawd’s name in vain in front of me, no sah!” Richie pulled a southern belle accent that made Eddie huff in exasperation. Richie loved it. They arrived at the airport just in time for him to grab a bag of gummy worms before they boarded. Eddie bitched the whole way about how he like to be _early_ for flights and Richie was thrown back to him saying the same old shit about going to the movies, back in the day. _Rich, come ON, it’s starting in ten minutes, we’re going to miss the previews, come ON!_ He smiled. They boarded. And they flew far, far away from New York City. They flew towards home—out of the blue and into the black—because home was wherever Eddie was, and if Eddie wanted to stay in Cali or move to Bumfuck, Ohio or Shithole, Mississippi, Richie knew he wouldn’t be far behind.

**********

Richie was a nightmare.

He was an absolute nightmare to fly with. He was tall, he was constantly knocking his knees against Eddie every time he started to doze, and he ordered way too many overpriced airline drinks. Eddie couldn’t blame him, though, because every time he did, Eddie asked them to bring him one, too. _That’s_ when they both started to get obnoxious. Luckily, they had the row on their side to themselves (_no third wheel_). That didn’t stop them from cursing a little too loud and laughing a little too hard and getting on each other’s nerves about as well as they were egging each other on. _Damn_, they were good at acquiring ugly looks from mothers of small children. Eddie thought Richie was a nightmare, but he simultaneously pinched himself to make sure he wasn’t dreaming, that this wasn’t a deliriously concocted vision crafted by an Eddie bleeding out in the sewers with a hole in his chest. He looked out the window—Richie had at least granted him that small pleasure—and his brain, fuzzy with airplane cosmos, decided that no, this was real, and he was dangerously unsure of what he was getting into. Risk analyzing be damned, he was truly happy for the first time in decades. He’d forgotten what that was like, and he adamantly decided that whatever happened next, this was the feeling he would _remember._


	3. maybe this is home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie and Eddie make it back to his place in Beverly Hills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big shoutout to everyone that’s read so far for the encouragement, I’m just as excited to see how these clueless little shits end up as you are. Enjoy!

_Belief over misery_  
_I've seen the enemy_  
_And I won't go back_  
_Back to how it was_  
_And I got my heart set on what happens next_  
_I got my eyes wide, it's not over yet_  
_We are miracles and we're not alone._

_This is home_  
_Now I'm finally back to where I belong_  
_Where I belong_  
_Yeah, this is home_  
_I've been searching for a place of my own_  
_Now I've found it_  
_Maybe this is home_  
_This is home._

-_This Is Home_, Switchfoot

They landed, both of their heads lolling, minds still fuzzy from shitty airline drinks. Was Richie dreaming? The love of his fucking _life_ was moving in with him, and how the hell could this be real? His skin was buzzing with the expectation of Pennywise’s ear-splitting giggle, _It’s not real, Richie, buddy, I let you make it all up and he’s DEAD I killed him with my barbed foot and none of this means anything, I’ll even let old Paul Bunyan here finish him off for you, heehee!_ But that wasn’t true—it _wasn’t_. Eddie was very much not-dead and the pinkness of life was flushing his face and Richie started cracking up as they gathered their carry-ons. “We—I forgot to see New York. Wasn’t that why I came with you in the first place?”

Eddie rolled his eyes. “Now _that’s_ an original joke.”

It didn’t matter if Eddie wanted what he did—all that mattered was that Eddie was not-dead, they remembered—they remembered so many forgotten, precious moments, and Richie had already locked them away and hid the key. No fucking ethereal being would _ever_ take that from him again. He had an Uber waiting for them when they arrived. “The carriage awaits.” Richie led the way with an elegant bow and Eddie shrugged past him, seething in the way he did. Should Richie lay off? Probably. Would he? When Eddie asked him to stop. He hadn’t—not really. Richie still didn’t get his hopes up. Richie was used to disappointment, yessiree, but not this time. No expectations—just enjoying the ride, and he’d cling on for as long as it lasted.

They rolled away to Richie’s place in Beverly Hills (Beverly Hills, Beverly Marsh, was that his subconscious at work? Ha.) and he silently fretted as they drew closer, trying to remember if it was clean or not.

The answer was no—no, it was not. Richie was a fully independent adult. He did his dishes, he washed his clothes, he made his bed (sometimes), but that kind of shit just kind of runs away from you when you’re confronted by a blast from the past that hits you like a fucking semi overflowing with over two decades of lost years. So no—Richie had made fucking _spaghetti_, of all things, and left the shit crusty and ‘soaking’ in his sink for roughly a week. He stared in horror at Eddie, who was staring in horror at everything else. It really, truly wasn’t that bad. There were like three old coffee cups, one pot, a plate, a few piece of silverware, some magazines scattered on the counter, and Eddie approached it as if it was 2012 again and the world was fucking ending. What a fucking _los/ver_.

Eddie threw his arms up and decided to drag his bags upstairs instead of confronting the kitchen—that was okay, because Richie was about to do it himself. “Where the fuck is the guest room?” He called, and Richie could hear him opening and closing doors willy-nilly. Richie would just let him find it. He started running the water and scrubbed at the plates. Damn, that shit could really congeal there if you let it. He loaded the dishwasher and the normality of it struck him like lightning. A week ago, he was eating spaghetti in this kitchen, forcing himself to shovel some food down after he’d packed and booked his flight to Derry, and now he was picking up right where he left off. He had to call his agent—tomorrow, maybe. The idea felt absurd—the world just kept turning and turning. Except this time, his nest didn’t feel hollow. His extraordinarily bougie home in Beverly Hills, that he’d been convinced to buy by one of the most affluent real estate agents in town even though it was much too big and far from his usual taste, finally felt like just that—_home_. Fucking sap.

**********

Eddie was blown away by Richie’s house. His place in NYC had been nice, _very_ nice, but Richie must have had one hell of a decorator come through. Everything was tidy, washed in shades of eggshell blue and beige. There were pieces of art hanging on the walls—abstract, mostly. It didn’t feel like him—until Eddie stumbled upon what was obviously his bedroom. The walls were a deep blue, and the comforter on the king-sized bed matched them. There’s was a weird-ass looking lamp resting on the side table that looked like it had literally been sculpted out of garbage and old music instruments that Eddie knew he’d likely picked up at some sketchy flea market somewhere around the country. There was a large mirror hanging on one wall, and a desk sitting near it. The top was littered with receipts and a beaten-up notebook, with mismatched pens shoved into a novelty cup from the Margaritaville restaurant in Orlando perched in one corner. A shelf bursting with stacks of books stood near the bed. A maroon rug was spread across the floor. The closet door stood open, a pair of shoes discarded haphazardly at the entrance. The walls were decorated with framed newspaper clippings, a few photos, and a couple more pieces of art—still abstract, but a little angrier, somehow. The room wasn’t messy, except the desk, a little. It was just—_lived_ in, unlike the rest of the house. He was jealous of its walls, having gotten know Richie when Eddie was driving around the streets of NYC, clueless to his existence. He also felt a pang of sadness for him. So much emptiness.

He found the guest room next. The eggshell blue and beige felt out-of-place in a way it hadn’t before Eddie had seen Richie’s room. He didn’t like it anymore. Eddie dropped off his bags and went back downstairs. By the time he had, Richie had the kitchen looking spotless. He was leaning against the counter, a cup of coffee in his hands. They’d left New York at nine that morning but it was only half past noon in California because of the change in time zones. _Going back in time. Not for the first time this week._ They still had a hell of a lot of daylight left. There was another mug with the tail of a teabag draped over the side. Eddie looked at the steeping green tea and then back at Richie. It was his favorite kind. Richie looked smug. “Did you get lost?”

“How the fuck do you just have my favorite tea laying around?” Eddie asked, still eyeing the cup with suspicion. There was an image of Chicago’s skyline printed on it, the city’s name written in flowing script.

Richie shrugged. “Something told me to just pick it up one day, no reason. I don’t drink tea—it’s been sitting for a while, so it might be stale.” Eddie took a hesitant sip, inhaling the herbal, minty scent. It wasn’t. “I’m not trying to poison you, dipshit.”

Eddie sat down at the table in the kitchen, with a muttered, “Creep.”

“Ahh, come on, Eds,” Richie said, messing his hair as he sat down next to him. Eddie jabbed a hand up to block further ruffling. “I know you’re boner-popping excited over that tea. Just sit back, relax, and appreciate the cosmic fuckery that’s brought us here. I’m tired of questioning it.”

He peered at Richie over his mug. Richie’s face was still stubbly, his glasses still cracked, looking as goofy and—_Richie_ as ever. _Cosmic fuckery._ Eddie would appreciate it if the universe would just mind its own goddamn business for the rest of his life, please and thank you. It was his turn to take the reins. Too bad he had no fucking idea what he was doing. “You need to get your glasses fixed, you look like an idiot.”

Richie shrugged. “I’ve got an extra pair upstairs, I think. Not the first time my glasses have gotten cracked in a battle to the death.”

“You’re so full of shit,” Eddie said. Richie stood and moved to the living room, flipping the tv on and loading Netflix. Eddie followed, sitting down next to him—not too close—on the tasteful suede couch. Richie scrolled past a comedy special—_his_ comedy special. Eddie snatched the remote and clicked play. It was just as terrible as he’d expected it to be, but the audience ate it up. Eddie felt bad for them—they didn’t know the _real_ Richie, and they never would. He couldn’t say his jokes in real life were any better, but they were _him_, and he did think he was funny—though Eddie would damn near have to be waterboarded to get him to admit it. They talked shit and Richie gave him a behind-the-scenes rundown and life was good. At some point, they’d gravitated closer to each other, like magnets, like they were each other’s suns.

**********

Richie adjusted his backup pair of glasses in the mirror in his room. They were the same frames, they just weren’t broken. He studied the damaged pair—the only tangible, permanent evidence he had that told him everything that had happened in the past week _had_ happened, along with a few scrapes and bruises, but those would fade. Oh, and Eddie. Eddie sitting on his couch, existing. He didn’t know how permanent _that_ was. It didn’t matter. Okay, it did, a little. He resolved to put his old frames in one of the drawers in his desk and the sound of Eddie cackling at a comedian that was far more original than he was drifted up the stairs.

“Damn, she’s funny!” Eddie said as Richie trotted back downstairs. Eddie drew his gaze away from the TV. “You could be that funny. Or at least—half that funny. Maybe.”

Richie grabbed a throw pillow—when had he bought _throw pillows_?—and chucked it at his face. Eddie pulled it into his lap. “We should let the others know we made it back safe,” Richie said. He stretched himself out over the couch, legs resting on the pillow on Eddie’s lap, even though there was a perfectly vacant—lonely—loveseat adjacent, and pulled out his phone. He subtly snapped a picture of Eddie. It was a good one. The lighting was decent. He was smiling. Natural. He sent it to the Losers group chat and captioned it, _single n ready to mingle, wingman mode ACTIVATED_. Eddie checked his phone at the buzz and his drew his face into a scowl.

“It doesn’t count if you’re wingmaning for yourself!” Eddie said, trying to grab the pillow out from under Richie’s legs. He tensed them and Eddie struggled in vain. “Do you benchpress with your calves? What the _fuck_?”

“That’s all you, Eddie Spaghetti-Arms,” Richie said, scrolling absently on his phone. “I do hear this Richie guy—he’s a fuckin’ fox. Nice teeth, great hair, good sense of humor, pulls off hipster glasses like nobody’s business. _And_ he’s an animal in bed—“ His phone was knocked out of his hands as Eddie wrenched the pillow free, twisted out from under his legs, and tried to smother him. Eddie was _on top_ of him. Richie snatched the pillow and Eddie slipped, catching himself with his elbows on either side of Richie’s head. Their faces were inches apart. One of Eddie’s knees was caught between his. The blood rushed from Richie’s head to somewhere else. Eddie pinched his stupid fucking eyebrows together and—was he fucking smirking? When did Eddie get _hot_? Probably sometime in the last twenty-seven years. Eddie had always been _cutecuteCUTE_, but it was still one hell of a glow-up. Richie, seconds from passing right the fuck out, sputtered, having forgotten to breath. Right into Eddie’s face. His smirk turned into disgust and he drew away, wiping at his face.

“Holy shit, Eds, if you want me that bad you could just ask,” Richie sat up, mouth running, grabbing the pillow off the floor and pulling it into his lap. Not like he wanted to hide anything, nosiree. He adjusted his glasses and blinked owlishly.

“Don’tfuckingcallmethat.” Eddie trained his eyes back on the TV though Richie doubted he was actually listening to it. He’d crossed his legs and had his hands wresting in his lap—hiding his lap? _No fucking way._ Richie wanted to scream, his skin was on fire. Is this what dying feels like? He was dying and Eddie was killing him and he was way, way too okay with that. He looked back at the TV. He felt pins and needles radiating from the palms of his hands to the tips of his toes. His eyes fluttered shut and he reveled in the memory of Eddie’s soft lips on his chapped ones. It was seared into his brain like a damn cattle brand. It was a self-inflicted torture. He bit back a whine. Patience had never been one of his strong suits, but goddamn he _would_ wait another twenty-seven years if he had to for just one more of those—now that he knew what he’d been missing. Their phones buzzed. Bev sent the little side-eyed smile emoji in response to the photo and caption Richie had sent. Richie watched Eddie lock his phone and tossed it on the coffee table with a huff.


	4. talk to me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie can’t sleep. Neither can Richie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m shitting these chapters out y’all, I love writing this and I love that other people love it too. These sweet comments are giving me life!

_You don't have to be a hero to save the world_  
_It doesn't make you a narcissist to love yourself_  
_It feels like nothing is easy it'll never be_  
_That's alright, let it out, talk to me._

_You don't have to be a prodigy to be unique_  
_You don't have to know what to say or what to think_  
_You don't have to be anybody you can never be_  
_That's alright, let it out, talk to me._

_Anxiety tossing turning in your sleep_  
_Even if you run away you still see them in your dreams_  
_It's so dark tonight but you'll survive certainly_  
_It's alright, come inside, and talk to me._

-_Talk To Me_, Cavetown

Eddie couldn’t fucking _sleep_. He’d been tossing and turning for at least an hour. They turned in early—both of them still a little jet-lagged from the flight—after ordering in some Chinese food from a restaurant Eddie had researched meticulously before agreeing to eat from. _I’ve eaten here a hundred times Eds, it’s fine—_ but Eddie had needed to do his own fact-checking. Eddie had to know for _sure_ that it was safe—that was the thing about Eddie. He had been conditioned to be safe, safe, safe his entire life, absolutely one-hundred-and-fifty-percent positive, before he made any kind of decision. He stared at the stupid beige ceiling and thought about how comforting the deep blues of Richie’s room probably were. _Safe, safe, safe, gotta be sure, one-hundred-and-fifty-percent—_Eddie flipped off the internal switch with a stuttering breath. He’d shut it off when Mikey called him. When they were fighting It—during both the original and the reprise. When he told his mother off, when he left Myra. Crawling into bed with his best friend—that was easy shit, right? He just needed—_someone_. When had he last felt that he needed someone like he needed Richie? Probably since—well, since he left Derry the first time. He rubbed his eyes. He was tired, no doubt about it, but he couldn’t _sleep_. “Fuck it.”

He padded down the carpeted hall in his pajamas and stood with his hand raised to knock on Richie’s bedroom door. He stood there for a moment, contemplating every single life choice he’d ever made, almost managing to talk himself back into the guest room, but then door opened before he could reverse the decision. Richie looked at him; surprise, then relief clouding his features. These emotions were quickly replaced by that stupid fucking smug smile and Eddie was tempted to turn heel anyway. He was shirtless again, his sleep pants riding low on his hips. _Oh fuck, did I really look down?_ “Eyes front and center, Admiral Aspirator.” If possible, the smile got more smug. _Goddamnit._ “I thought I heard your little feetsies traipsing down the hall. Couldn’t sleep without me? I’ve heard I’m a _mean_ cuddler. Give ‘em just enough to keep ‘em coming back for more.”

Eddie shrugged past him, avoiding eye contact. “Cuddling literally makes you live longer, it’s science, look it up. I’m doing this for my health.” It wasn’t a lie—there were many studies that said that physical touch and sleeping with a partner—_shut the fuck up, Eddie._ The deep blue sheets were a tangled mess. Richie was having trouble sleeping, too, and the covers were a physical confirmation, if the way his already messy hair was completely mussed wasn’t enough. Eddie straightened the covers out before climbing underneath them. He looked at the bedside table. “Where the fuck did you get that lamp?”

“Some sketchy flea market in Georgia.” Eddie knew it. “Swear they could sense I was bisexual, I could almost _hear_ the banjo music. Too fuckin’ weird to pass up, though, it’s probably cursed or something.” Richie settled in next to him, closer than necessary in the bed with more than enough room for two people.

“Why’d you paint the room this color?” Eddie asked. “The rest of the house looks like an incredibly boring, nuclear family with two-point-five kids and a fucking Goldendoodle designed it.”

Richie sighed. “I spend most of my time when I’m at home in here. It’s a good color. The rest of the house is just—there, kind of. Maybe I just never grew out of the shitty studio apartment mindset.”

Eddie nodded. “Shit looks like a dorm room.” He studied the wall decorations. “These paintings are better, too.”

Richie smiled, then. “Thanks. I did them myself.”

“You—you fucking paint now? Who are you?” Eddie pinched his eyebrows together incredulously and saw Richie squirm.

“The next Kandinsky, asshole,” Richie said. He studied one of the paintings himself. “I think I had some—some of those memories swirling around, from back then, and when I had a particularly shit dream or whatever, I just painted. I went to therapy like twice, and she suggested it might help.” Eddie’s jaw dropped at that one. _Richie paying someone to listen to him talk about his feelings. Really—who the fuck is he?_ Grownup. Richie was a grownup and so was Eddie, now. Richie powered through Eddie’s stricken expression without response. “The other ones around the house are just me fucking around. These ones, though—I knew these ones were _something_.” Eddie imagined Richie, bleary-eyed, paint splatters dotting his glasses, looking thoughtfully at a half-formed idea splashed across a canvas. The image was _adorable_. “I have a studio set up in the garage. I’ll show you tomorrow.”

Eddie looked at the painting that Richie was focused on. There were circles of deep red—blood red—suspended in space. White triangles like teeth intersected them at odd angles. Seven rectangles formed with bold colors contrasted with the rest of the organic chaos. The first five were spaced at consistent intervals, the sixth one was leaning on the fifth one, and the seventh one was lying long-side down. _Cosmic fuckery, indeed._ “Is that—is that us? The Losers?” He gestured at the bottom corner, where the rectangles were.

Richie shrugged. “I think so—now. I think that one’s Stan.” He pointed at the rectangle that was resting on it’s long edge—like it had fallen over. “And that one’s you.” He gestured at the sixth rectangle, the one balancing precariously on one corner, leaning on the one next to it.

“And that’s—you?” Eddie asked, pointing at the one the falling rectangle was leaning on. Richie just shrugged again.

“I’ve been staring at it for the last hour or so—since I came to bed. Funny how—I guess it was locked away up here.” He tapped his forehead, sighed, and took his glasses off. “Wish I’d been able to find it a little easier. But when the fuck has anything ever been easy for us, huh, Eds?” Eddie was too busy studying the painting to respond to the detested nickname. He had never cared for abstract art, it never made sense to him—until now. It’s different, when you can see your life’s story, future and past, written across a canvas in explosions of color and strategically placed impressions of shapes. Maybe that’s why some people liked it so much. Richie flipped off his weird-ass lamp and settled into bed. He looked over at Eddie, who’d settled in, too, after the room had been bathed in darkness. The moon was nearly full—the light was sneaking in through the cracked blinds. His eyes adjusted. Eddie knew Richie couldn’t see for shit without his glasses, but he was still looking at him, anyway.

Eddie sighed. The more time he spent rediscovering his old friend, the more he wondered what the fuck he was waiting on. He reached out a hand and cupped Richie’s cheek. Richie nuzzled into it like a fucking cat and—was he purring? “You fucking weirdo.” Richie giggled and curled an arm around his middle.

“Is this okay?” Richie’s eyes were damn near shining, brimming with liquid emotion and something darker. Eddie’s skin tingled at the contact point. His shirt had ridden up as he slipped into bed and Richie’s pinkie was hooked under it—on accident, probably. Eddie gulped.

“Yeah, Rich. It’s okay,” Eddie choked. Richie drew him a little closer and Eddie let him, his hand fully snaking under the hem of his shirt then. Not an accident. Eddie just barely contained a squeak.

“Is this okay?” Richie asked again, lying stock-still, fucking _looking at him_, even though Eddie knew he couldn’t see shit—just waiting for his response.

Eddie nodded, noticeably enough that Richie would be able to see even with his bat-quality vision. Richie drew his thumb over his hip bone. Eddie shuddered. When had someone last touched him—_ever_ touched him like that? He never _courted_ Myra. He didn’t have to. They kind of just met and they—they got married. He’d dated before her, sure, not that he could even remember any of their fucking faces with his senses flooded with _RichieRichieRichie_, but never—his skin had _never_ palpably sizzled. Richie let a deep exhale out through his nose. “You’re fucking killing me, Eds. I’m going to have a heart attack.” It was nearly a whimper. _He_ was going to have a heart attack? Eddie’s was about to beat right the hell out of his chest, crash through the glass of the window, and find the nearest body of water drown itself in. “Do you have any _fucking_ idea what you do to me?”

He did, oh god Eddie _did_ have an idea because Richie was giving it right back to him. Eddie tried to find his breath again. Where the fuck did it go? His chest was squeezing—but not like an asthma attack. His lungs were just flooded with every word he’d never said. Richie’s hand tightened on his hip. “You’re not allowed to choke out on me, Kaspbrak. It’s been a good fucking while since I stopped carrying around your extra aspirator, so get your shit together.”

“My shit—my shit’s never been together, asshole,” Eddie said, finally managing to wheeze out some semblance of language. Richie felt for his glasses on the table behind him with the hand that had been on Eddie and stuck them back on his face without sitting up. They were hanging off-kilter from being smushed between Richie’s head and the pillow beneath it, hovering a centimeter off the bridge of his nose. Eddie kept talking, silently registering the ache of the loss of Richie’s touch. “It’s just been—been shit after shit after shit—and the worst part is, I didn’t even know that it was a heap of shit until—_Derry_, again. It’s like stepping into that Townhouse—it was like I was in some knock-off Grimm Brothers fairytale where instead of the carriage turning back into—into a pumpkin, the last two decades just turned into a steaming pile of _shit_.”

Richie snorted, laughed. “Okay, Eddierella. What the hell are you going to do about it?”

“I—fuck, that’s the problem,” Eddie shoved his face into the pillow, feeling the sting of tears threatening to burst. He needed some aspirin. Richie grabbed his chin and forced him to turn back and look at him. His thumb brushed against the shell of Eddie’s ear and his hand came to rest on his shoulder.

“It’s up to you. Everything—it’s all you. It’s _always_ been you,” Richie half-smiled, his voice dripping with uncharacteristic sincerity. “_‘R’ plus ‘E’, baby,_” he crooned, magnified eyes alight with humor.

“I—you—you dramatic _ass_,” Eddie groaned. But he’d seen it. That stupid carving by that stupid kid that his stupid self had known. The stupid kid that gave him the first butterflies he’d ever felt, every time he ruffled his hair or stood a little too close to him in the clubhouse or pulled a new nickname out of his ass and he pretended to hate it and maybe he did just a little but that feeling had been—it was there, Eddie could remember, before he’d even known what that weird flipping in his gut had meant. Eddie felt all of the wasted time closing in on him like a group of writhing hands, begging him to give them more, _gimme gimme gimme_, the gluttonous beasts, with twisted faces reminiscent of Pennywise, Myra, and his mother, feeding off every second-guessing thought and doubt that plagued him as the minutes, hours, days, _years_ rolled on, turning him grey and bitter and leaving him alone. His personal monsters were already bursting at the seams with stolen moments, thousands of already-lived days locked away behind a door for which there was no key. _Scary, very scary, and not scary at all._ Eddie saw three doors. He studied Richie for a moment, all messy hair and chiseled jaw and big eyes and even bigger glasses. He gripped one of the handles and pulled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I am straight-up torturing y’all. Thanks for bearing with me, the release is near. P.S. VERY IMPORTANT QUESTION. Would anyone be interested in me mocking up a design for the painting Richie did...? I draw, and if anyone would care to see it, I’d be happy to whip something up. Just let me know. :-) xoxoxo *UPDATE* Y’all asked and I delivered. Seven, by Richard Tozier: https://imgur.com/a/TD8bDz6


	5. tell me it’s real

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie makes a choice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seven, by Richard Tozier: https://imgur.com/a/TD8bDz6  
My idea of what Richie painted (from the last chapter). I am not, in fact, any kind of Kandinsky. Idk hope y’all think it’s cool (I’ll also add it to the end notes of the previous chapter).  
ANYWAYS. It’s the moment you’ve all been waiting for. *gestures aggressively towards E-rating* Smutty-smut-SMUT is incoming so if you’re not into that feel free to wait for/skip to the next chapter. I am no expert at smut; in fact, this is my first foray into the genre so I very much hope y’all like it doesn’t sound fucking stupid or disappoint.

_I know, _  
_love's always been sink or swim so I won't_  
_say it's over just as it begins_  
_so tell me it's real_  
_Just tell me it's real._  
  
-_Tell Me It’s Real_, Seafret

Richie thought that Eddie looked well and truly constipated. Richie trailed his hand down from Eddie’s shoulder to his side, moving past his elbow, landing on his hip again. He looked at his hand, just a lump beneath the covers. Eddie reached out and lifted his chin, forcing Richie to redirect his attention. Now that his eyes had adjusted to the dark, and his glasses were back on, he could make out more of Eddie’s features. Goddamn, he wished he’d have been there to tease him for that very first gray hair—when the crows feet started to work their way into the corners of his eyes. Eddie brushed back a few stray curls and moved his hand to the back of Richie’s neck, holding it there—just _looking_ and Richie went right back to wanting to scream again. _Just kiss me you stupid fuck kiss me kiss me KISS ME._ Eddie stroked the fine baby hairs there with a thumb and set fire to every follicle. “I think—this is my _very scary_ door.”

“That’s stupid,” Richie scoffed, remembering with some amusement—then horror—the Pomeranian they’d encountered. Thinking of the sewers, though—total boner kill. Focusing on Eddie? Eddie with his pretty face that was both old and new, his hand on the back of Richie’s neck, just _stroking_ him there—well, that did quite the opposite, didn’t it?

“Is it?” Eddie quirked an eyebrow. He smoothed himself against Richie, tucking one knee between his legs, like he had on that ugly couch in his uninviting living room, and the blood left his stupid fucking brain again and his senses were fully flooded with everything Eddie—Eddie. Everything. Eddie bumped his nose, bumped his nose against Richie’s nose and was—_oh, fuck_—kissing him. It was so—so tentative. Exploratory. It was different, so different than the Kissing Bridge. At the Bridge, it meant comfort, an expression of care and concern; a carefully controlled consolation. He’d _loved_ it, but it—it wasn’t _this_. He hadn’t known for sure if it would _ever_ be like this, but holy shit was he glad he was wrong. Richie kissed back. He teased Eddie’s mouth open with a curious thumb against his bottom lip. Eddie let him, after letting out a disgruntled hum. Then, Richie was hungry. He was touch-starved and fucking drowning. Eddie’s delicate, spitfire mouth was a lifeboat and a future without him was like staying on the sinking Titanic. Eddie’s hands tangled in his curls and pulled. Richie couldn’t fucking help it. He dug his fingers into Eddie’s hip—too hard, too needy, so much _need_—and rolled him over so he was straddling him. He refused to let their lips part—ever again, probably, oxygen be damned. Who the fuck had time to breathe? He’d never waste another second doing anything but _this_. Richie’s hand moved from Eddie’s hip to the back of his head, fusing them together. God, he was soft in all the right places—and hard in all the others. He bucked against him when Eddie clutched at his hair again. He had never wasted any time figuring out which of Richie’s buttons to push to drive him fucking crazy. They both grunted, the long-awaited contact setting fucking fireworks off in their veins. The hand that wasn’t busy with his hair seared a trail down his bare back and—_oh my god, he _is _ trying to kill me_—settled on Richie’s ass. Richie gasped.

“H-Holy _fuck_,” he huffed, one arm cradling Eddie’s giant, stupid fucking head, the other clutched around the back of his neck. He rested his forehead against his. “You done this before?”

Eddie’s breaths were coming short and thick through his response. His pupils were blown. Richie wished he could snap a photo of _that_. “Not like this—no.” Eddie squeezed. Richie shuddered, grinding into him once more. He didn’t want to push Eddie too far—or push him away—but Eddie’s reciprocated “_Fuck_” was enough to egg the animal instinct in his brain on.

“Well keep it up, Eds, and you’ll have me finishing in my pants like I was sixteen again,” he muttered against Eddie’s lips. He entwined his own fingers in Eddie’s shorter hair and gave an experimental tug. Eddie fucking _whined_ and Richie wanted to crawl inside the sound and live there. “Kinky.”

“You’re one to talk,” Eddie gasped as Richie planted a sloppy kiss below his ear. Fucking _hell_, he was just about watering at the mouth at the clean, soapy, lavender-saturated scent of him. Richie gave another tug. Eddie exhaled sharply and threw his head back. Richie took advantage of the exposed skin to nip at his neck. It was Eddie’s turn to buck up. Richie reached the collar of Eddie’s shirt and voiced his severe disappointment in the loss of his already sweat-slicked skin.

Richie slipped a hand underneath the shirt—too, too far up—and grazed a nipple. Eddie somehow managed to scowl through the pleased shudder. Richie moved his hand back down to the hem and gave it a tug. “May I?”

“Be my guest, Tozier,” Eddie replied. His chest was heaving. It had him mildly concerned but—_gazebo_. He tugged the shirt over Eddie’s head as quickly (and gently) as he possibly could. Eddie sat up to help him. Richie was fully sitting in his lap, then. Richie didn’t mind. Eddie followed Richie’s example and brushed a thumb over one of his nipples. Richie didn’t doubt that he _really_ didn’t know what he was doing, but damn if he wasn’t a quick learner. It was as if Eddie had struck a lightning rod connected directly to his crotch. Eddie, clearly reveling smugly in the way Richie’s hips had canted and the _mmm_ that had slipped out of his throat, stuck a tongue out and fucking _licked_ it like a goddamn Tootsie Pop. Then, Richie was on his back, and Eddie was on top of _him_. He was’t that scrawny little asthmatic anymore. Richie’s nerve endings throbbed as he looked at the muscles bunched in Eddie’s arms. _Jesus Christ, does he work out?_

“Do you have any _fucking_ clue the wet dreams I’ve had of this moment, Eds?” Richie rambled, his turn to snake his hands down and fondle Eddie’s ass. “Fuck, just like I’d imagined it—better, even.” It was true. Richie’s heart was so full he thought it might fucking explode and what a way to go that would be.

“I thought,” Eddie said, giving his hair another moan-inducing yank. “I told you not to call me Eds.”

Richie fully went numb, like Eddie had pulled his soul right out of his body through the pores in his scalp. Holy _shit_, he’d been with both men and women before but had he ever felt like he was floating? _We all float here, bitches._ Eddie planted another soft kiss on his lips and coaxed his mouth open, and Richie decided no—no he had not, and nothing else ever even fucking mattered because this is all he would ever care to remember. The desperate urgency of the moment subsided into a languid exploration. Richie still felt a throbbing heat down below the waistline of his sweatpants but this—_this_ is what dreams were fucking made of. Eddie was straddling him, propped up on one elbow, one hand cradling his chin, rubbing his thumb against the stubble there. “I like this,” Eddie whispered, dropping a trail of chaste kisses against the roughness there. The utter reverence in his voice made Richie shiver. “Texture.” Eddie propped himself up with both arms. Even in just the glow of the moon, Richie could see that Eddie’s face was chaffed. He looked ethereal—wet lips slightly parted and wide eyes and damn near panting. Richie felt his stomach sink through the floor. _Was_ he dreaming? Eddie could apparently fucking read minds as well as he could scramble them because he said, “You’re not dreaming, dipshit. Unless we—we both are.”

Richie gave Eddie’s ass another squeeze and Eddie’s breath stuttered. He traced a line against his lower back, against the band of his sleep pants. He popped the elastic there. Eddie yelped, the resulting jump causing friction that made Richie growl complacently from somewhere deep in his chest. “Watch it, fucker,” Eddie said and squeezed Richie’s side, where he fucking _knew_ he was ticklish and Richie grabbed Eddie’s hips, holding him in place as he squirmed up into him as punishment. Eddie whined, clutching at one of his shoulders. Richie could feel the clipped fingernails making marks there. _Please please please leave me something to remind me this was real._

Richie was starting to feel faint. “Jesus Christ, Eds—“ Richie said with a shake of his head. “I don’t think I have enough blood left anywhere other than my dick to keep my heart pumping. You’re gonna have to drag me out of this bed in a fucking coffin. It was fun while it lasted.”

Richie didn’t want to be greedy—if everything stopped right then and Eddie grabbed his shit and took the next flight far away from Beverly Hills, Richie would still mail him a ‘thank you’ note and toss the memory right into his vault for safekeeping, as much as he really fucking hoped that wouldn’t happen. But man oh _man_, did he want Eddie to do something to his dick—Eddie with his soft hands and soft lips and dumb eyebrows and dark eyes. An image of Eddie’s head nestled between his legs, his hair mussed from Richie’s searching fingers, flashed in his mind and—that was it. The killing blow. Richie groaned, hands moving from Eddie’s back to his thighs, squeezing the muscles there. Eddie planted a sloppy kiss on Richie’s mouth, then attached his lips to his neck with the enthusiasm of an emaciated vampire. “_Fuck,_ Eddie,” he breathed, and moved his hands back to the waistline of his pants. He hooked his thumbs there. _Leave a mark, show me this is real, please show me it’s real._ He gasped when Eddie nipped him. Richie needed him naked. Their lazy movements were growing more frantic, a rising crescendo of mouths and hands and ecstasy, desperate to make up for decades of stolen touches as they both realized the extent of what they’d been missing. Richie gave the elastic a pull. “C-can—can I—can _y-you_—“

“Holy fuck, I didn’t know I was making out with Stuttering Bill,” Eddie teased, sitting up and moving to rest his ass on Richie’s thighs. He ran his hands down Richie’s chest, slowly, so so fucking slowly—studying every freckle and fucking hair. Richie was a pro at faking confidence, but he felt like he was being fucking x-rayed under Eddie’s focused gaze. Richie choked down the lump in his throat. _Why the fuck am I about to cry right now?_ He blinked it away. Because Eddie almost died, but Eddie didn’t die, Eddie’s right here and _no_ he wouldn’t let himself cry because there was so, so much else he needed to do. Eddie’s his hand finally, _finally_, found the waistband of Richie’s sweatpants. He curled one hand around the band and used the other to play with the tie in the middle. Richie felt _really_ self-conscious then. His dick was straining against the fabric there. Eddie studied the bulge for another long moment. Richie noticed Eddie had an erection to match his own. Richie was gonna _fucking_ scream. Eddie looked back up. Eddie was hungry, too. Richie wondered when he’d last seen _anyone_ naked. He couldn’t imagine he and Myra had much of a sex life, but _fuck_, that was the last thing he needed to be thinking about right now. Eddie spoke so quietly he almost missed the interjection between the racing of his thoughts. “You—you first.”

“Don’t say another goddamn word, Spaghetti Man,” Richie breathed, reaching down to untie the string of his pants himself. Eddie pushed his hands away and Richie keened. “You could run me over with a fucking car right now, baby, and I’d thank you for it.”

Eddie shook his head with an incredulous smile and a muttered “_Idiot_,” and propped himself up on his knees as he started to shimmy Richie’s sweatpants down. _Oh my fucking god he’s so so slow he does everything so so SO slow—_Richie sprung free. Eddie had apparently shimmied his underwear down, too. Then, Eddie fucking rubbed at his own crotch through his cotton sleep pants and moaned deep in his throat and Richie literally didn’t think he’d ever seen anything sexier. He tried to tap into his anti-spank bank because if he didn’t he was literally going to _explode_ like his dick was a fucking fuse and started to pull Eddie’s pants down. Richie paused, looked at him with the question, and Eddie started helping him. _Now that’s a fucking answer._ Eddie stumbled off the bed to kick them off and Richie started to laugh—he couldn’t help it. He started laughing and tried to cover his face. Eddie’s face screwed up with something like embarrassment—Richie could just barely make it out in the shadows.

“I’m not—“ he started through the giggles. “I’m not laughing at you—you dumbfuck. I’m sorry—it’s just—this is the best night of my entire fucking life.” It was true. He was also laughing because of the desperate way Eddie started to kick his pants off, then how he leaned down to fold them anyway. He was laughing because this was completely absurd and—he was laughing because holy _shit_ did Richie score. Eddie grudgingly rolled back onto the bed. Richie leaned on top of him, kissing him through laugh-laced hiccups. His eyes roamed down until they reached—_fuck_, the high just kept rolling. He leaned his forehead against Eddie’s and felt his own member twitch. “Has anyone ever told you you’re fucking _gorgeous_ Kaspbrak?”

Eddie’s eyes were glossy. _Shit, he was about to cry, too._ Richie rested a hand on his side and gave him a little squeeze. Richie kissed him on the forehead. “God, I _love_ you, dude.”

Eddie pulled him into another kiss and whispered against his mouth, “Get busy, Rich. I’ve heard you’re an _animal_ in bed.” Eddie’s other hand forced Richie’s down from his side to—_oh._ Richie curled his hand around Eddie’s dick, and Eddie gasped. He flicked a thumb over the tip, and Eddie winced. “S-Sensitive.”

Richie kissed him again. “Sorry, Spaghetti. I’ll be more—“ He pumped his hand once. “—gentle.” Eddie covered his face with one of his arms, smothering a whimper. Richie reached up and pulled it away, feeling personally victimized by not having been able to hear the full audio. “No, sir. I’m living for this. I wanna hear _every_ little noise.” Eddie laughed breathlessly, eyes sleepy with want.

“Gotta make me make them first.”

“Just you wait, I’m gonna make you fucking _scream_.” Richie slid fully on top, rubbing them together. “Well, it isn’t gay until our balls touch—“ Richie started to kid, then Eddie grabbed his ass and ground up into him and made it very, _very_ gay. Richie hissed. Eddie matched it.

“Not if I make you first, Tozier.” Eddie reached down and—hesitantly—grabbed them both. He pumped his hand a few times, as if it were a delicate experiment.

Richie managed to groan out some words. “I’m not taking that bet, sorry.” He started planting wet kisses down Eddie’s chest, pulling himself from Eddie’s grip. He flicked his tongue at a nipple and Eddie’s hands were in his hair and _goddamn_ he loved that. He moved down past his belly button, through the sparse happy trail, and nipped a spot on his hip.

“Ahhh fuck, _Rich_,” Eddie begged, his eyebrows screaming at him in the dark. Richie needed light—he needed to see him. He reached out and flipped it on before Eddie could protest. He cried out at the harshness of the light and Richie hustled to get his mouth on his other hip. “Do we have to—“

Richie looked up at him, talking against his skin. “No—no, we don’t have to, but—“ He looked up at the familiar freckles on Eddie’s nose, and the ones he hadn’t seen spattered across his chest. He wanted to count every single fucking one. “I want to watch you.”

“Oh,” Eddie said, his hand still tangled in Richie’s hair. Richie had his chin propped up on his hipbone. _Fuck_, Eddie had hipbones. He ran a thumb along crease of the opposite thigh and his leg jumped reflexively. Eddie’s eyes fluttered, his eyebrows pinched, and his lips parted. “O-o-o-okay, then.”

“Who sounds like Bill now?” Richie said as he refocused his attention, glancing up intermittently and making his own dick fucking leak at the faces Eddie was making. Then, he popped the head of Eddie’s into his mouth. Eddie bucked his hips up, hand tightening in Richie’s hair, holding him there, and almost caused Richie to choke. Luckily, Richie had at least a little experience sucking dick, and inhaled deeply through his nose, willing his gag-reflex away. Richie’s mouth was fucking watering as he continued to lick and suck and squeeze. He dragged what little nails he hadn’t chewed off in the past week down the inside of Eddie’s thigh. Now _that_ noise was fucking ringtone-worthy.

Eddie dragged Richie back up to meet his mouth by the back of his neck, then rolled him over again. “Your turn,” Eddie muttered against his chest as he mimicked what Richie had done, dropping kisses all the way. Richie blinked down at him. _Is he—?_ He was. He looked down at Richie’s dick with a nervous curiosity.

“You’ve seen a dick before, right?” Richie teased, squirming a little under his careful observation. Eddie’s eyes moved up his body and back to his face. Eddie laughed and shook his head.

“Not like this,” he said, leaning back down to start exploring Richie’s abdomen with his mouth. He took his sweet fucking time, too. And then there it was—that heaven-sent image of Eddie looking properly disheveled, head between his legs. He almost came, just from that. He tensed. He wasn’t fucking ready, there was so much more to _do_. Then Eddie shouldered his way under his knees and put a finger—oh my _fuck_. Eddie was literally playing with his asshole. Richie whined, hand finding Eddie’s hair again. __

“Going all—_fuck_—in, huh?” Richie asked through gritted teeth. Eddie shook his head.

“No—I’m not ready,” Eddie sighed, moving his hands back up Richie’s thighs.

Richie nodded. “It’s okay, Eds.” He pulled him back onto his chest for another kiss. He grabbed a bottle of lube out of the bedside table and squirted it in his hand. It had a sickeningly sweet strawberry scent. Eddie wrinkled his nose in that _cutecuteCUTE_ way and Richie felt fucking butterflies beating their wings against the walls of his stomach. He made a mental note to pick a scentless brand up next time—he didn’t even much care for strawberries—and brought his hand down between them. He started to stroke both of them together. The lube was cold at first and it made them both shudder. Richie groaned at the much needed contact. Eddie’s hips were thrusting and Richie’s insides ached to know what it would feel like when he finally got to feel that _inside_ him. It didn’t take long.

“_Fuck, Rich—_“ Eddie finished with a shout, Richie’s name falling from his lips like a prayer. That’s all it took. _Oh he’s gonna hate this_—the half-formed thought on his mind as he finished, cum shooting onto Eddie’s stomach. Richie’s reality exploded in a symphony of color, like a dam fit to burst had finally been let out. Tears stung at his eyes. Had he _ever_ been so fucking happy? He glanced down at the mess. _Unsanitary._ Eddie didn’t seem to mind as much as Richie thought he might. He hovered over him for a few more moments, and Richie could feel his limbs shaking from trying to hold up his own weight. Richie’s body felt like it was made of jello—strawberry flavored jello. Eddie pressed a soft kiss on his jaw, then on his mouth. “That was—it—_shit_.“ He rolled off of him gingerly, laying flat on his back. He glanced down at his stomach. It was like some sort of erotic take on a Jackson Pollock painting. When Richie could be certain his legs were still fully functional, he padded to the master bathroom and came out with a big, fluffy towel. He leaned over him and wiped it off. Eddie raised his eyebrows. “You’re full of shit if you think we’re both not taking showers after that.”

“Oh, don’t sound so _disgusted_, Spaghetti Man. Sounded like you had fun,” Richie said, planting an insultingly messy kiss on his cheek as he climbed back into the now-coverless bed. He nuzzled into his ear and raised his voice an octave, letting out a faux moan. “_Oh fuck, fuck, Rich, oh fuck—_”

“You stupid ass—“ Eddie reached over and pinched Richie’s side, sending him flailing.

“Shut up, you love me,” Richie sighed. He decided he didn’t care if Eddie ever said it back. All that mattered was that Eddie was here, and he’d keep pouring and pouring into him as long as he’d allow it.

Eddie shrugged, looking a little more solemn. He smiled. It was the softest, sweetest thing (other than Eddie’s ass, _holy shit I finally touched Eddie’s ass_) that Richie had ever seen. “Yeah, I guess.”

Richie blinked, pulled a face, then donned one of his Voices. “Oh, lawd! Papa, he does love me! Fetch the dowry!” He slung an arm over his forehead in a swoon.

Eddie groaned. “Don’t fucking make me regret this.” Richie’s heart sank, even though he knew it was a stupid joke. _It’s real, stupid. It’s all real._ Eddie must have noticed because reached out and rested his hand against his cheek. “I don’t regret it, you clueless shit.” Richie just hummed in response, and Eddie continued. “I’m going to go take a shower now—“

Richie hopped out of bed and booked it to the bathroom. Eddie sat up, still dazed from the afterglow of what Richie bet was, like, the best orgasm of his life. Richie knew that was true for himself. Richie leaned against the door frame, still fully naked. “What are you waiting for? Let’s save the planet, Eds—one shower at a time.”

**********

_Very scary._  
  
Richie was already asleep. They were still naked, skin still warm and soft from their shower, which Eddie decided, was the one and only they would ever share. He hogged the shower head and kept spitting water at him like a fucking child. But that was—that was Richie. And god fucking help him, but Eddie was head-over-heels. He hadn’t told him so, other than that poor insinuation he’d dropped. Eddie would, though. Sometime—soon. Richie had an arm draped over his middle, clinging to him, like he was afraid he’d float away. He’d passed out almost immediately after they’d settled back into the bed. Eddie sighed, inhaling the smell of shampoo that was drifting from Richie’s still-wet hair. He’d had to go and grab his own travel-sized bottles for them to use because, to Eddie’s horror, Richie used a three-in-one.  
  
Eddie studied the painting, the one of the Losers. Richie had saved him countless times, in so many ways, over the course of the short years that they’d actually gotten the chance to _know_ each other. Eddie decided, then, that he’d very much like to spend the rest of the time he had rediscovering all those ways, making sure he knew how grateful he was. Richie had rescued him, from so many monsters—but, most importantly, Richie had saved him from himself. He’d granted him the courage to do so. Saved him from the inside of his own stupid fucking head, with his shitty nicknames and Voices and sneaking touches and jokes about his mother. Eddie lamented the nights that could have been—but maybe, this was exactly how it was supposed to happen. If _cosmic fuckery_ had anything to do with where he was at that very moment, he supposed he should thank it.


	6. all these years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie seeks comfort. Friends find their way back to each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life's been busy. Thanks for hanging out. *hugs*

_It's better to feel pain, than nothing at all_  
_The opposite of love's indifference_  
_So pay attention now_  
_I'm standing on your porch screaming out_  
_And I won't leave until you come downstairs._

_ _ __ _ _

_ _ __ _ _

-_Stubborn Love_, The Lumineers

Richie flipped on the light, gesturing for Eddie to walk through the doorway in front of him. “Well, this is it.”

Eddie’s eyes scanned the garage with wonder, a cup of his favorite tea clutched in his hands. Shelves that should have housed things like dirty rags or engine oil were stacked nearly to bowing with cans and bottles of paint with various logos and brand names stuck across their sides. There was an easel with a blank canvas set up in the center with some paint-spattered drop cloths spread neatly beneath it. A couple more easels were leaned against one wall. An adjustable stool stood in front and a table with well-used brushes of all shapes and sizes stood beside it. There were a dozen or more canvases leaning against another wall, one of them nearly as tall as Eddie himself. A couple of them had washes of various colors, waiting patiently to be chosen next. Eddie turned back to Richie. “I can’t fucking believe you _paint_.”

Richie was blushing. “Uh—people don’t _know_ I paint.” He clutched his chest in mock heart palpitations. “Can you imagine how much that would discredit me as the funny dickhead that bitches about his supposed ex-girlfriends?”

Eddie wrinkled his nose. “I think it’d discredit you in the best way, dickhead.” Richie’s hair was still mussed from bed, his face still scruffy from their week from hell. Had it only been a few days since he’d died—but didn’t? They’d risen from bed after a couple of languid kisses and Eddie’s complaints about Richie’s breath being _fucking rank._ Eddie still had on a bathrobe and some bedroom slippers, even though the clock was creeping into the afternoon. Untied sweatpants hung around Richie’s hips, and he’d thrown on an old t-shirt declaring Disney World to be the happiest place on Earth. “Thanks for showing me.”

“Anytime, Eds. Maybe I’ll have to use you as a nude model sometime. I’ve been meaning to take a whack at figure drawing,” Richie shrugged, scanning Eddie from slippers to hairline.

“Don’t call me Eds,” he replied, without much bite.

“Didn’t seem to mind much last night.” Richie waggled his eyebrows, and it was Eddie’s turn to blush.

“Well fuck, I was a little preoccupied,” Eddie countered.

“I would say so.” Richie leaned in and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips—hesitant, in a way that Eddie hadn’t known Richie to be. Eddie’s stomach flipped. They had thousands of flips make up for, he supposed. He ushered Eddie out of the garage, shutting off the light and closing the door behind them. They headed to the living room and flipped on the tv once again. Both of their phones buzzed in their pockets before they had a chance to start any show.

_Mike: Getting settled in at the new place. How’s next week sound for a visit? Too soon?_

Eddie watched Richie tap out a response.

_Richie: who is this_

“You’re an asshole, you know that?” Eddie scoffed, leaning over to knock Richie’s phone out of his hands. He avoided it by jerking it out of reach, leaning back, and throwing his legs over Eddie’s lap once again.

_Bev: You’re an asshole_

Richie sent a laugh react with a real-time giggle. Eddie liked her message.

_Bill: I have the ending written so it’s possible. Maybe a real life conclusion helped with it. *shrug*_

_Richie: bout fuckin time u came up with a good one_

_Ben: Can you even type, bro?_

_Richie: srry, hard to type with one hand when my other one is in ur mom’s vagina_

“Fucking gross, dude,” Eddie said as he rolled his eyes, shoving Richie’s legs off him and heading into the kitchen to rinse his mug out in the sink and deposit it in the dishwasher.

“That’s not what _your _mom said,” Richie said, eyes still on his phone. Fuck, had seeing the Losers again made him relapse into telling mom jokes again, or had he also been like that during their time apart? With a pang of regret, Eddie had to admit he’d never know.

_Eddie: Never too soon to see my old pals. How’s next Thursday work for everyone? To Sunday?_

Richie was the first to like the message. He sent the gif of Zach Galifianakis carrying cocktail glasses, saying ‘C’mon guys! Vodka beach party!’ Eddie snorted. Richie smiled smugly, and Eddie couldn’t decide if he wanted to kiss or slap it off his face. Just like old times. Eddie wondered if it had become more or less complicated.

_I’m down. Let’s go. I’m in. _

The messages followed in quick succession. His old friends were just a click away. Eddie’s heart swelled, memories simmering under the surface—riding bikes, the quarry (as much as he’d hated the bacteria-saturated thing), the Barrens, the Aladdin, their underground clubhouse—and future ones to be made, filling him with a warm glow he’d never known he was missing. Their crew was incomplete, but their missing piece—they’d never forget. Eddie bit back an unshed tear. “Stan the Man,” he muttered. _Fuck_.

Richie was by his side, then. Eddie found himself braced against the kitchen counter, phone lying face-up beside him, notifications from everyone except Stan flooding the screen. “Hey, Eds. It’s okay.”

Eddie didn’t have any fight in him to argue and the words tumbled out in a panicked flurry. “It—it’s not fucking okay. We never—didn’t—we didn’t even have the time to _mourn_ him. It was all so—he should have _been _there. Fuck.”

“I know,” Richie said, hushing him with an embrace. “I know, Eddie. I went to his bar mitzfah. I don’t know if I ever told you—any of you. I don’t think he did, either.”

Eddie pulled away, then. He looked at Richie. “You—you _what?_”

Richie’s hands were still on Eddie’s sides. He smiled a sad, such a _sad_ half-smile, and continued. “Yeah. He—he was amazing. I just—I don’t know. He was just—he was always one of us. The Losers. We should really trademark that, y’know.” That pulled a stuttering laugh out of Eddie. Richie smiled a little wider, then continued. “We meant so much to him, Eds. Until the end. It’s why he did what he did. He knew—he did what he _thought _he had to do, so we could be _here._ And we shouldn’t ever forget that.” Richie moved his hands to Eddie’s shoulders. “But we can’t let it consume us, either. Maybe it would’ve been different, if he had been there. Maybe not. But we can’t change any of that—we can’t change _anything _now. Those choices spiral out. In an alternate universe, you’re dead. Or I’m dead. Or Bill, or Mike, or Bev, or Ben. Or maybe—maybe more of us, or all of us. In this one, though, Stan’s gone, and we’re here. And it sucks giant donkey assholes. But it’s the one we’re left with, and we have to do what we can with the ashes of what he left behind.”

Eddie looked at him like he was an alien lifeform come to earth with Buddah’s notebook in his back pocket. Did aliens have back pockets? Pennywise didn’t. Eddie never noticed if It had, anyway. He brushed some tears away from his face. “Did you major in philosophy? Are you a Kandinsky _and _Plato incarnate, albeit with a more modern vocabulary?”

“_Donkey assholes_? Did you like that one?” Richie laughed. His eyes were shiny, too. He enveloped the smaller man in a hug. Eddie let him “It’s okay, Eds. It is, and it isn’t. Either way, I think Stan the Man would be at least a little content with how things panned out, if he couldn’t be here.”

“Thanks, Rich. It’s just—it fucking sucks,” Eddie sighed, clinging to him in a way that was both incredibly foreign and achingly familiar.

Richie sniffled. “You’re telling me—I’d love to let him know I finally got to suck Edward Kaspbrak’s dick.”

Eddie tried to pull away but settled on pinching his side. Richie squirmed with a yelp, his hold on Eddie tightening. “You bragged about it to anyone else yet?”

“Nah,” Richie said as he gave him one more squeeze, then let him go. Eddie leaned back against the counter and crossed him arms. Richie’s eyes glinted with mischievous intent. “Should I?”

Eddie snorted. “Do what you want, your mouth is going to run off at some point anyway—” Eddie panicked as Richie whipped out his phone and started typing fervently. “Hey! Stop that!” He lunged to grab the phone out of his hands. Richie, being taller, easily won at their game of keep-away.

“Stop _what_?” Richie asked innocently, hand braced against Eddie’s chest as his arms pinwheeled towards the phone. Eddie gave up with a huff. “I’m just trying to book us some plane tickets for Thursday. What, are you _embarrassed _of me?”

“Uh—no. I mean, yes, but not for that. I just don’t think telling our childhood friends you sucked my dick over text is particularly prudent, you dumbfuck,” Eddie explained matter-of-factly.

“Oh, so I should do it in-person? Should I arrange a toast?” Richie looked up from his scrolling, using his phone as a mock champagne glass. “_Hear, hear, ladies and gents. I dedicate this toast to Edward Kaspbrak’s sweet, sweet ass, and him being gracious enough to let me touch it—”_

Eddie cut him off with an exasperated groan. “You’re a fucking idiot, Tozier.”

“_Your _idiot, if you’ll have me,” Richie sighed, rinsing out his own finished cup of coffee.

“Is that a marriage proposal? Sloppy,” Eddie said, eyeing Richie’s cloth-covered ass as he bent over to place his cup in the dishwasher but pretending not to.

“Would you say yes?” Richie turned and leaned against the counter across from him, arms crossed, eyebrows pinched behind his too-large glasses.

Eddie felt his stomach sink through the floor. _You can’t fucking be serious. _“You can’t fucking be serious.”

Richie shrugged, then laughed. “No, I know you’re a harder egg to crack than that, Eds. I gotta _really _work for it to be lucky enough to get call myself Mrs. Kaspbrak the Second.”

Eddie flipped him off as he backed into the living room and plopped back down on the couch. “Aren’t you supposed to call your agent or whatever the fuck today?”

Richie followed, an expression on his face that Eddie couldn’t quite read. “Yeah—I mean, I can call him whenever. What’s one more week, for a _family emergency_?”

_Family. _That’s what they—the Losers—were, Eddie supposed. It made him smile. He felt more connected to the world around him than he had in decades. It was like colors were brighter, objects more tangible—feelings more _felt_. “Your career’s funeral.”

“Fuck my career,” Richie said, leaning over Eddie and planting a more confident kiss on his lips. His mouth was coffee-laced and downright intoxicating. Eddie had never been much of a fan of coffee—drove his OCD _crazy_—but that was a taste he could get used to. “_This _is the only job I’ll ever take seriously for the rest of my life.”

_The rest of my life._ Huh.

**********

Richie was grinning ear-to-ear as they merged onto the highway. Eddie was damn near bouncing up and down in the passenger seat with excitement. He had a half-eaten ice cream cone, held with a thick stack of napkins, in one hand. His other was in Richie’s. They’d stopped at a drive through of a small dessert shop that Eddie had researched fervently using the airplane’s wifi. _We have to go there Rich. The reviews are phenomenal and their health score is perfect. It’s a local legend. _Richie had downed his own brownie-saturated chocolate sundae in the parking lot. Eddie was taking his own sweet time enjoying his salted caramel matcha waffle cone. “This shit is so good. Thanks for stopping, Rich.”

“Anything for Eddie-Spaghetti,” Richie replied, glancing over at him. It was a high-school date they never had. He gave his hand a little squeeze.

“Fuck! Pay attention! You’re going to kill us, you shit!” Eddie shouted, tugging the hand that was in Richie’s to gesture frantically at the car that just cut them off.

“You’re just so pretty I got distracted for a second, dollface,” Richie said in a shitty mobster accent, punctuating the sentence with a wink. Eddie grumbled something Richie couldn’t quite make out (but could have been _shut the fuck up_) and honed back in on the mess that was melting in his hands thanks to the unforgiving heat of the Florida sun, even in the air conditioning of the car. It was early fall, but mid-afternoon in the Panhandle was still a bit brutal. The detour to the ice cream place had cost them about an hour. _Anything for Eddie-Spaghetti, though._ Richie let Eddie pick the music and he put on some shitty alternative folk station. Richie was more into rock n roll. “What the fuck is this?”

“The Lumineers, dumbass. You haven’t ever listened to the Lumineers?” Eddie asked, finishing up his cone and discarding the napkins in a cupholder that was serving as a temporary trashcan.

“No, I don’t have a fucking manbun or drink IPAs, so—no,” Richie said, reaching for Eddie’s phone. He jerked it out of reach.

“Fuck you, neither do I—it’s good stuff, though. Just listen to the _words_,” Eddie said as he leaned his chair back a couple inches and relaxed into his seat, looking out the passenger window at the landscape whizzing by. Richie had no choice so he did, and he’d die before he’d admit it, but it wasn’t too bad.

They reached Mike’s condo in about an hour. It was a nice place, only a ten minute walk from the beach. They had driven through a downtown area, which consisted of a several nice restaurants, boutiques, and a grocery store—not a cheesy Floridian giftshop in sight. There were two other cars parked in front of the garage; Ben, Bev, and Bill must have already made it. Eddie grumbled. “Always fucking late.”

Richie looked at him incredulously and threw the balled up napkins that were still in the cupholder at him as he got out of the car. “If you weren’t such a slut for ice cream—”

Richie got the wind knocked out of him as a head of flaming red hair slammed into him for a tight hug. “Good to see you, Trashmouth.” Bev looked at him with those big, green eyes, a sweet smile on her face. She glanced between Richie and Eddie, raising her eyebrows, her smile growing wider. Richie scoffed, eyes turning skyward. Ben had Eddie locked in a hug, too. Mike and Bill were standing behind them, both grinning. Their smiles knitted Richie’s heart back together.

“Sorry we’re late—you know Eddie’s always been a slut for ice cream—” Eddie picked up the ball of napkins and hit Richie square in the face with them.

“What else is Eddie a slut for?” Bev muttered and Richie felt himself go red. He tried to find some words, mouth opening and closing a couple times like a goddamn goldfish, but came up blank. Bev laughed.

“You—you fucking—" Richie stammered, eyes wide. Bev laughed harder and slung an arm around his waist.

“Let’s go, buddy. Mike has some apps waiting.” Richie exhaled sharply and let himself be led into the house by his fire-haired companion. Richie felt his phone vibrate and pulled it out of his pocket with a glance—his agent. He flipped it onto airplane mode and locked it. The only people he cared to talk to were already surrounding him. Besides, what was Richie, other than an expert at avoiding his problems? He glanced at Eddie. All except—well, Eddie wasn’t a problem. Eddie was the solution. Eddie smiled at him. Richie smiled back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so stoked for more Losers Club Good Times™, it's been a while. As always, kudos and comments give me life. Sending love to all of y'all. (Also, can someone tell me where I can get a salted caramel matcha waffle cone? That shit sounds bangin'.)


	7. just we two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An accidental confession.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It has been TOOOOO LONG, I know. I hope some of you are still following this - and if not, I hope those of you that come upon it have enjoyed it just as well.

_Listen, do you want to know a secret?_  
_Do you promise not to tell?_  
_Whoa-oh-oh, closer_  
_Let me whisper in your ear_  
_Say the words you long to hear_  
_I'm in love with you, ooh_

_-Do You Want To Know A Secret,_ The Beatles

Eddie stared at Richie with something between disgust and admiration as he shoveled red pepper hummus-dipped pretzels in his mouth and continued to tell Mike and Bev some shitty story from one of his past comedy tours through it. “Hey—Eddie? Dude?” Ben’s voice dispersed the _Richie-Haze_ Eddie’s mind had wandered into.

“Yeah?” He said, dragging his eyes away from Richie’s stupid, now clean-shaven face after another long second.

“That Epstein thing is fucking insane, right?” Bill scoffed, powering through the political tangent he’d apparently been going on as Eddie fell further into his infatuated stupor. “I’m calling it now. There’s no fucking way—”

“Chillax, man,” Bev said, wandering over. She replaced the empty glass in Bill’s hand with another, a metal ice cube cooling the amber liquid. She met Eddie’s eyes and raised her eyebrows. “It’ll all _come out_ in it’s own time.” She was smiling and Eddie felt a blush creep up his cheeks. Why was he blushing? _Why is Bev like this?_ She sipped her own cocktail innocently. Eddie took a sip of his wine. He hated her. But like, in a loving way. Then Richie slung an arm around his shoulders, clinking his glass of whiskey against Eddie’s glass of wine and Bev’s shit-eating (validating) grin only grew wider. Were they really forty? They weren’t stupid teenagers? God, the Losers made him feel like it—in a painfully nostalgic and comforting way. Those stupid teenagers he’d missed out on growing up with. The fine lines in their faces seemed to wash away instead of deepen with every passing moment—every moment that grew between them and the trauma that had brought them all together in the first place. They were pulling a Benjamin Button on him. Mike strode past them, through the living room, and slid open one of the doors to the back patio. “Come, check it out.”

Not for the first time in recent weeks, Eddie felt like he was tripping through time. “This—this is the fucking clubhouse, dude.”

Mike just glanced at Eddie and laughed. “Yeah, it is.”

It was as if Mike had picked up the underground lair that they’d built and plopped it right onto the screened-in patio of the condo. There were the old boardgames stacked haphazardly on a shelf on one side. Weatherworn posters that bore the stains of age were pinned up on the wall of the house, featuring movies Eddie hadn’t watched in decades. It looked so out of place, but felt so much like home. Bill walked over to the shelf and picked up a tin—Stan’s tin. He popped it open and pulled a shower cap out. “Did you—”

“I figure we won’t ever have much of a reason to go back to Derry, wouldn’t _want_ to go back to Derry, so I went down to the club house, and grabbed what was salvageable,” Mike shrugged. Ben laughed.

“You’re damn right, Mikey. Fuck Derry.” He wrapped an arm around Bev’s waist and squeezed. She smiled and rested her head against his shoulder.

Richie wandered over to the old hammock hanging from the roof and ran his hand across it.

“This is _the _hammock.” Richie’s face lit up and he turned to Eddie with that stupid grin that crinkled his entire face and Eddie felt a lump form in his throat. It was the face he made when the pizza delivery driver arrived, when his endless babble was met with a perfectly sassy comeback, when he saw a _really _cute dog at a café. It was the face Richie had made every single morning they’d woken up together, when his eyes opened and he saw that Eddie was still there, still breathing, still…his.

Eddie shrugged past him and clambered in. He crossed his legs, threw his arms behind the back of his head, and closed his eyes. The once-again familiar chatter of his friends—voices deepened by maturity—became a pleasant hum as more lost memories continued to fall into place around him. The hammock groaned as Richie attempted to climb in with him. Eddie peeked at him and shook his head. “I think those days have long gone by.”

Richie let out a dramatized gasp. “You callin’ me fat, boyo?”

Eddie kicked at his ass with a bare foot and mocked his accent. “Well, ya ain’t as plucky as ya used to be—”

Richie flipped him out of the hammock and Eddie tumbled without grace to the planked flooring of the deck. The Losers cheered.

**********

The Losers gathered on the beach to watch the sunset, at Bev’s fervent suggestion. They sloppily spread out some towels and plopped down to admire the view. Mike and Bill each claimed their own, Ben and Bev snuggled up beside each other, and Richie laid out a towel for he and Eddie to share. Eddie dropped his voice. “I thought you said you brought me one.”

Richie matched his volume. “I said I brought _us _one.” Richie settled down on the towel and patted the space next to him. Eddie sat. Their thighs were pressed together and Richie grinned as he felt Eddie lean into him. Ever so slightly. He leaned back on his arms, one tucked behind Eddie. Eddie didn’t protest, just studied the rolling waves with a thoughtful concentration, his eyebrows knit together. The orange glow of the setting sun glanced off the water with an ecstatic sheen, carving shadows out of Eddie’s sharper, now-adult features. He was beautiful.

Bill stood up, shouting something about _forgetting something_ over the steady crash of the waves creeping up the shore, and darted back up to the condo. He returned a few moments later with another towel and laid it out, empty, beside his own. At the rest of their questioning looks, he shrugged and said, “Stan.” They didn’t need any more explanation than that. They enjoyed a somber, comfortable quiet, nothing but the sounds of the ocean, the barking of gulls, and the mumbling of their thoughts buzzing in their ears, until the sun fell below the waterline and light gave way to dark. By the time the last rays disappeared, Richie had his arm around Eddie’s shoulders and Eddie had his circled around Richie’s waist. Richie caught a glance or two from the rest of the gang—no surprise, just love.

Mike had shown them the guest beds earlier. There were three—a futon in his office space and two fully furnished bedrooms, one with a loveseat. Bill offered to take the futon. “I like being in a workspace, feels like home.”

“I’ll take the loveseat,” Richie volunteered, feeling his heart thump in his chest. He looked at Eddie. “You can have the bed.”

“I can do that,” Eddie shrugged with a thin veil of nonchalance. They both knew the loveseat would remain cold and empty for the evening, and Richie suspected the rest of the group knew, too. They were experiencing a growing dependence on each other, and sleeping in the same bed was one of those dependencies. What began as a seemingly innocent way to stave off nightmares had become a comfortable, expected routine, and neither of them intended to break it. Bev and Ben uttered a quick _thank you and goodnight_ as they fumbled into the remaining bedroom, a bottle of wine in one of his hands and two glasses in hers. He was practically drooling. Richie couldn’t blame him—Bev, with her bikini top and short shorts, quick wit, sun-kissed skin and shock of auburn hair wouldn’t have looked out of place on the cover of an issue of Sports Illustrated. Mike just rolled his eyes with a smile and headed to his own room. “Goodnight, guys. I’ll make breakfast in the morning.” Bill followed him down the hall.

“What say we follow _those_ two lovebirds’ example and pop a bottle of our own?” Richie snagged some unopened champagne out of the fridge and two flute glasses. Eddie wrinkled his nose. That stupid, cute nose.

“I _guess,_” Eddie said, turning heel and heading to their room. “I’ve never quite understood the appeal of champagne. It just tastes like shitty spoiled soda water to me.”

“Oh, but it’s the epitome of _romance,_ Eddie!” Richie declared, probably a little too loudly because Eddie was hissing a _shutthefuckup _from across the room. Richie followed him to their room and Eddie flicked on a light. It was decorated in, _you guessed it_, a beach theme. Richie glanced around at the seashell-studded clock, the starfish-adorned throw pillows, and the sailboat-embroidered comforter spread on the bed and couldn’t help but laugh “Oh this is so fucking cheesy.”

Eddie relaxed on the bed. “You’d know, you’re the King of Cheese.”

Richie perched beside him on the bed and Eddie rolled on one side, one arm propping up his head, the other hand lightly pressed against Richie’s back, setting his senses ablaze. Richie placed the bottle and glasses on the bedside table underneath the lamp. “Don’t act like you’re not into it, dollface.”

“God fucking help me, but it seems so,” Eddie scoffed.

“Well, behind closed doors, anyway.” Richie said, a lump from nowhere lodging itself in his throat. Eddie scooted up into a seated position next to him and Richie ached at the loss of contact.

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?” Eddie looked taken aback. Richie was, too. He hadn’t meant to say that. But it’s what he felt and he was going to talk about it, because as past data would show, talking about his dumb fucking feelings was important. He tried to gather his thoughts into a coherent sentence, but Eddie started speaking again before he could make that happen, because of course he already knew what was wrong, he knew Richie better than Richie knew himself. “You mean, not being all over you today like a horny teenager?”

“No—yes—I mean, when you put it that way, it sounds fucking stupid—” Richie stammered.

Eddie put a hand on the back of his neck and made Richie look at him. Richie wanted to trace every curve of every line of his face with the calloused pads of his fingertips. Eddie was barely speaking above a whisper. “Because it _is _fucking stupid, Rich. Because—again—God fucking _help_ me—but I—I’m madly in love with you and it’s fucking terrifying and I’m still figuring out what to do about it and I—”

Richie’s jaw dropped. His chest was thumping in an ecstatic rhythm. _His heart grew three sizes that day,_ the narrator's voice from The Grinch droned in the back of his mind for some god forsaken reason, _it's not the time for that he said it HESAIDIT. “You said it.”_

__

__

Eddie scrunched his eyebrows together. “Said what?” Richie could see it dawn on him, then, and his face began to turn a bright pink. He hadn’t even realized. Somehow, that made it even better to Richie.

“You said you loved me.”

Eddie sputtered, searching. “Have I—have I not? I mean—you _know_ that—”

Richie pulled him into a hug and buried his face in Eddie’s neck, his hand curling itself in his hair. “Yeah, I know. I knew. You—you _kind _of said it—but—it’s just fucking amazing hearing it come outta that purdy mouth of yours. What else does that purdy mouth do?”

“Knock it off, asshole,” Eddie laughed, pushing him away. “I’m sorry—you’re not stupid. It’s not stupid. I’ll—_we’ll—_”

“Oh now _that’s _a kink! Come on, keep telling me how not-stupid I am,” Richie crooned.

Eddie huffed. “Ruined it, dickhead.”

“It’s okay, Eds. I was being petty. I know you—you have to take your time for certain things, you need it to be a _certain _way, and that’s okay. As much as I wanna touch that perky little ass in front of our friends so bad I could fucking _die_, I will wait until the end of my days for such a glorious opportunity if I must,” Richie declared dramatically. And he would. He’d have waited forever for Eddie to ever look his way. Eddie by his side, sitting open and vulnerable, _in love with him_, was already more than he ever let himself dare dream. “I absolutely will not refrain from stealing glances though.”

Eddie was positively flushed. “Well, they’re not here now.”

“Say no more, Spaghetti Man,” Richie breathed as he cupped Eddie’s chin and closed the distance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gonna heat up again next chapter. I promise the wait won't be quite as long! ;-) Please stay safe out there, and I'll try to wrap this up for y'all as soon as I can. I love writing this story, I love these characters, and I appreciate all of you for reading.


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